Sin Is When Life Freezes (I John 1:8)

But if we say we have no sin, then we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.[I John 1:8]



When I try to say how I see the world, I can’t get away from an image that forces itself on me and won’t let go: the Ice Age -- this slow advance of cold, a freezing process which we experience and try to forget. Ice Age in the schools, in the factories, in the high-rise silos we live in, in those smallest units formerly known as families. We all know that more people are more skillfully tortured than ever before, that more people starve and that more children in the Third World become mentally retarded due to lack of protein. Meanwhile, in the First World, more and more people are spiritually retarded from overnourishment, to sum up in one word the condition we enjoy. We don’t just live in an advancing Ice Age; we produce it, maintain it and profit from it. It is absurd that we want to deny the fact of this “sin”; that is, the domination of freezing over retreating human beings. To dispute or ignore the Johannine writer’s words demands a certain degree of mindlessness or stupidity. You don’t have to be “religious” or “especially sensitive” to understand what I’m talking about. Sin -- the absence of warmth, love, caring, trust -- is the most normal thing in the world.

Marianne is an attractive young woman who owns her own home in the suburb where she lives with her two children. She tells me about the gold jewelry her husband gave her for Christmas. The gold comes from South Africa; but she doesn’t see the blood on her gold chain. She hardly understands the connection between racism, infant death rates and exploitation, on the one hand, and profit, the low price of gold and the export of nuclear technology (in which her husband is involved), on the other hand. Another thing she doesn’t (yet) know is that gold can’t keep her warm.

For her, “sin” is a ridiculously old-fashioned word, connected with eating too many calories, illegal parking or uncondoned sexual behavior. You really can’t take any of that seriously. Marianne feels guilty about her mother because she doesn’t visit her often enough; occasionally she asks herself if she takes proper care of her children. But sin?

Recently she’s been depressed a lot without being able to say why. Soon, I suspect, the emptiness of her life will catch up with, her. Then she will either have to change her life, or she will go right on living in her modernized doll house and denying, repressing, sweeping under a thicker and thicker rug everything that disturbs or challenges her. She will continue to freeze, in spite of good intelligence, an adequate education and an inborn capacity for compassion and empathy. She will remain underdeveloped rationally, emotionally, socially and therefore individually as well. A colonized being, governed by trends in which she has no say but to which she submits, cut off from life, impoverished -- it goes without saying that she is depoliticized as well.

If Marianne happened to read this article, she would see it as overly pessimistic exaggeration. Like so many people, she is superficially Christianized. In her youth she was taught that sin means separation from God, turning away from the Creator, revolt against him, worship of other gods. But all of these are empty phrases which have nothing to do with her life. She experiences the actual meaning of this word sin -- namely, being separated from God -- most closely when she is depressed. More sensitive to cold than is her husband, she feels the Ice Age drawing near. But there are so many fantastic antidepressants -- alcohol, for example.



When the tradition says that sin is the destruction of our relationship to God, it doesn’t mean individual “sins” but rather a general condition, the destruction of our capacity for relatedness. Everything seems to us to become shadowy, unimportant; life loses its taste, we can take it or leave it. Sin means being separated from the ground of life; it means having a disturbed relationship to ourselves, our neighbor, the creation and the human family.

Thanks to her feminine upbringing, Marianne feels like a victim of her environment. She doesn’t know her own strengths and capabilities. She’s been brainwashed long enough to believe that she can’t patch an electric wire; that only young, attractive women have anything to say on television; that she doesn’t understand anything about business and politics. When I recently asked her to sign the Danish women’s petition against the so-called arms race, she gave me the classic argument: “It doesn’t do any good, anyway.” Sin means, for women more than for anyone else, not knowing one’s own strengths and capabilities; never having experienced solidarity; giving oneself credit for nothing; having no self-confidence. It means living without self-determination, without power, without hope. Black theologians define powerlessness as the apathy of those who have given up. The life of most women resembles that of colonized people. Thus alcoholism is almost a “natural” result of the destruction of one’s relationship to oneself.

Marianne’s relationship to her neighbor is very reduced. She has to do only with people of her own class. She keeps her children (unconsciously, of course) away from contact with different people, different experiences, different cultures. Unrecognized racism has become an integral part of her life. But even her relationship to people of her own class is essentially based on competition and envy. “Look what they can afford!” (rather than “What do they need that for?”); “Why do your friends do better than you in school?” (rather than “What are you really interested in at the moment?”); “Why was your colleague promoted before you?” (rather than “How can we have more time for each other?”). The assumption that other people must be our enemies rather than our enrichment, our affirmation, our joy is the permanent foundation of our culture, glossed over by nice parties.

Marianne’s relationship to the creation and to nature is perhaps somewhat less disturbed than her husband’s. She rides a bicycle, while he drives a car. But she’s lost her original joy in the returning birds, the rise of the moon. Everything she loved as a very young girl is further away now, more indifferent; but she still fights back against the freezing process.

Marianne’s relationship to the human family, to her sisters in the Third World, is troubled, privatistically crippled. I’ve given up even trying to answer her occasional “But what can anybody really do?” This question just masks the fact that she really doesn’t want to do anything. There are hundreds of possibilities for getting effectively involved now and giving part of one’s time, money and strength for justice.



I read the following letter from an Indonesian father in the Public Forum (December 14, 1979):

Every father wants a better life for his children. That’s why he becomes a father in the first place. My daughter has become a prostitute. This is the only way she can help the family. She doesn’t want to watch the family starve. A victim of poverty, my God. I am ashamed. But the rich society can only buy our bodies, not our souls.

My wife is a symbol of suffering and sacrifice, my God. She works as a maid for 1200 rupiah ($1.60) a month and one meal a day. She has to do all the heavy housework, wash, clean, cook, watch her master’s children -- all this for a miserable rupiah. Her master’s wife doesn’t pay any attention to my wife’s work. At the same time, my children need consideration and love too, but circumstances force my wife to neglect her own household to take care of someone else’s household -- for so little money. Can community grow in such disorder?

How can any reasonable person permit this to happen, that my wife is a slave and my daughter a prostitute; children of hunger, naked, sick, uneducated?

My understanding of sin has been shaped by the experiences of my generation. I was born in 1929. I am a child of fascism, and spent about ten years of my young adulthood on the questions: “How could it happen? Where were you when the transports were put together? Didn’t you smell the gas?” Without this background, I would probably still think of sin as a superficial feature of a poor religious socialization. Coming of age means becoming capable of guilt. To understand what sin is, we need a standard by which we can measure false, unconscious, frozen life. We can begin to recognize and overcome sin only when we begin to use this standard; when we, related to one another, begin to learn to love. A voice calls, “Turn around! Why do you want to die?” (Ezek. 18:31).

Poetry of Religion on Broadway: ‘The Elephant Man’

. . . the more we study Art, the less we care for Nature. What Art really reveals to us is Nature’s lack of design, her curious crudities, her extraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition. . . Art is our spirited protest, our gallant attempt to teach Nature her proper place. [Oscar Wilde, "The Decay of Lying"].

What is an elephant compared to a man? [Bertolt Brecht, A Man’s a Man].

Something important indeed has happened in American theater when an eloquent play with religious implications commands the attention of Broadway audiences and critics as The Elephant Man has done. In its opening season last spring, this first American production of a work by Bernard Pomerance swept up all the major drama prizes, including three Tony and three Obie awards, and it continues to draw full houses at the Booth Theatre, where it moved from its off-Broadway location in St. Peter’s Lutheran Church at Citicorp Center.

A compendium of late Victorian attitudes, Pomerance’s work is a historical drama of the last years (1886-1890) of the grotesquely misshapen John Merrick, which were spent in the London Hospital, Whitechapel, under the care of Sir Frederick Treves. For 30 years Treves did not tell the story of this unusual patient and protégé -- for whom he sought to achieve "normality as far as possible" -- until he published his reminiscences in 1923. Pomerance transforms these primary materials for the stage through the conventions of Victorian melodrama and of dramatic realism, with gestures toward absurdist theater and the alienation techniques of Bertolt Brecht. (Brecht also elaborated an elephant/man joke in his early works The Elephant Calf and A Man’s a Man, which Pomerance adapted for a London production in 1975.)

Perhaps surprisingly, this theatrical mélange is not incoherent. Asking his audience alternately to enter into the lives of Treves and Merrick and to draw back sharply as critics, Pomerance makes the play’s enigma of mercy and justice that much more pressing for those who witness its incarnation, The Elephant Man. At its quiet dramatic center is the story of the overwhelming need for faith in the face of malignant nature and one-dimensional culture. The greatest surprise is that for all its irony, this compelling play lays Pascal’s wager on the bare possibility of salvation.

A Double Figure

In the opening swift melodramatic scenes, Merrick is insulted, beaten, robbed and abandoned -- an innocent social victim "raped" most brutally of all by his several rescuers. At a circus in the second scene, Ross (I. M. Hobson), the manager who discovered Merrick in a workhouse, hawks his traveling mutation show as "Mother Nature uncorseted and in malignant rage!" But the main attraction is the freak’s suffering from exposure "to the cruelly lacerating expressions of horror and disgust by all who behold him. . . . Tuppence only, step in and see!"

Ross’s crude appeals to sadistic voyeurism are rapidly succeeded by the subtler cruelty of Sir Frederick Treves (Kevin Conway). whose ebullient spirit of Darwinian science is allusively linked to the hubris of the British Empire. To the rising young scientist, the mysterious anatomical disorder (today the diagnosis would be neurofibromatosis) is "medical richesse." In scene three he lectures (as though reading from the real Treves journal) while pointing with his cane to projected photographs of the real John Merrick:

The most striking feature about him was his enormous head. Its circumference was about that of a man’s waist. From the brow there projected a huge bony mass like a loaf, while from the hack of his head hung a bag of spongy fungous-looking skin.... The deformities rendered the face utterly incapable of the expression of any emotion whatsoever... . The right arm was of enormous size and shapeless. . . .The right hand was large and clumsy -- a fin or paddle rather than a hand. . . . The other arm was remarkable by contrast. It was not only normal, but was moreover a delicately shaped limb covered with a fine skin and provided with a beautiful hand which any woman might have envied. The lower limbs were unwieldy, dropsical-looking, and grossly misshapen. . . .

Waiting in a patch of light to Treves’s side is John Anglim, the handsome actor who will play John Merrick (and who is now playing him in the touring company); classic in physique, he is loincloth-clad and stands in a cruciform posture, with arms angled slightly from his body and palms toward the audience. As the lecture in past tense proceeds, Anglim becomes the Elephant Man character by slowly contorting his straight frame until he has become crooked, as though under the pressure of Treves’s anatomical language. This posture, maintained through the rest of the play, never allows us to forget the shocking pictures; but what we actually "see" is an elegant theatrical paradox -- an Apollonian figure imitating an inhuman creature, the essential "Form" of a god with the "Appearance" of a mortal.

Because Pomerance has chosen not to paint and pad his freak literalistically, Merrick -- ever in a double figure -- reminds us of that "other" dimension of beauty and wholeness that is nearly absent from the broken world this play exposes. Merrick is thus not only a Beast with a Beautiful Soul, but a walking (lame), talking (barely articulate) symbol of transcendence on the stage. (His foil Treves is double too but with quite different effect: every bit the gentleman in Victorian period costume, he is short, stocky, red-whiskered -- just faintly animalistic as well.)

‘Almost Like Me’

In the first ten scenes John Merrick is an irresistibly sympathetic character who suffers "humiliations in order to survive" yet believes in happiness and is capable of compassion for other victims as well as of wit in the face of brutality. Treves gives Merrick a "home" in that typically Victorian earthly paradise, the charitable/scientific institution, where he teaches the man to bathe himself and to repeat: "Rules make us happy because they are for our own good." Merrick imitates well enough; yet this disturbing naïf knows too much. When Treves defends the peremptory sacking of a staring hospital attendant as merciful for Merrick’s sake, the freak asks his keeper: "If your mercy is so cruel, what do you have for justice?" Such early lines seem to promise that the Elephant Man will be the little child who leads these scientists to transcend their own kind of naïveté and egoistic blindness.

Despite his exterior hideousness, Merrick’s spirit utterly charms the actress Mrs. Kendall (Carole Shelley), whom Treves brings in to help civilize his creature. "My head is so big," Merrick confides to her, "because it is so full of dreams Do you know what happens when dreams cannot get out?" This woman, kind-souled under a witty theatrical façade, becomes the human means for Merrick’s release of imagination (and the magnet for his intense idealism); she graciously undertakes the task of introducing him to the best society. Meanwhile Bishop Walsham How (a rotund Anglican type played by the same actor who portrays Ross) aspires to instruct this "true Christian in the rough" who "bears his cross" with such fortitude (but who is perplexed by the book of Job, "for he cannot see that a just God must cause suffering, as he puts it, merely then to be merciful"). The first half of the play ends triumphantly, raising the audience’s expectation for more than Merrick’s induction into normality.

When the second half opens, the artistically gifted Merrick is building a model of St. Philip’s Church. He explicates its Platonic religious allegory: the cathedral is "not stone and steel and glass; it is an imitation of grace flying up and up from the mud. So I make my imitation of an imitation." Reversal has already set in, however, thwarting Merrick’s early promise. The "best society" he must imitate to become a man among men is composed of one-dimensional figures who now crowd the stage space, bearing lavish silver gifts (props for Merrick’s humanity) in a Christmas pilgrimage to the London Hospital. Now their cultured faun -- Merrick in evening dress -- steps respectfully into the background to receive their homage in the repeated formula, "I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance."

As a popular cult figure, however, Merrick must also take on all the other figures’ contradictory dreams. One by one they come forward to express just how Merrick seems "almost like me." Treves thinks his protégé "curious, compassionate, concerned about the world, well, rather like myself." Yet like the others Treves also acknowledges the reflection of his darker self in this living memento mori: Merrick is "visibly worse than in ‘86-’87. That, as he rises higher in the consolations of society, he gets visibly more grotesque is proof definitive he is like me." Midway through the play Treves and Merrick have arrived at exactly the same point. But the doctor "can make no sense" of their shared condition.

Ironically, as Merrick begins to emerge as society’s Everyman, the morality-fable simplicity with which the play opened has vanished. Our responses to both Merrick and Treves become less sure, more complicated by the transformation each undergoes in the encounter with the other. Following a Brechtian pattern, the innocent now becomes deeply implicated in the system of exploitation that has "saved" him. When the corrupt Ross turns up again to ask for help, Merrick’s rejection of the man’s crude proposition is at once a necessary defense of his own human dignity and a cruelly elegant refusal to acknowledge the evident poverty and pain of the aging manager.

Cruelty or Kindness? A Metaphor

Meanwhile we have come to sympathize with Treves, who has begun to question his materialist assumptions and the "moral swamp" of his society. As he and others busy themselves with providing proof of Merrick’s humanity -- in order to shore up their own secular faith in a progressive social Darwinism and in their own decadent moral order -- they expose their hollow theatricality and the futility of their "progress." This society does not "know . . . what else to do" with Merrick’s nature but to "rob it," says Sir Frederick at last; and, like those colonized by British imperialism, this imitative product of their social engineering becomes a "mockery of everything we live by."

The play’s crisis comes after a great blow to Treves’s sexual "decency," when he discovers the lovely Mrs. Kendall shyly unveiling her torso to Merrick -- a poignantly "beautiful sight" in John’s only moment of "paradise" in the play. "Do you know what you are?" Treves yells at Merrick. "Don’t you know what is forbidden?" Mrs. Kendall is banished, but Treves never answers Merrick’s pained questioning about the disappearance of his Ideal and, indeed, allows him to believe that she chooses to absent herself from the hospital.

Merrick then begins "chipping away at the edges" of Treves’s indecently confident morality which can invoke no religious belief to justify the parting of these two souls. He soon asks: "Frederick, do you believe in heaven? Hell? What about Christ? What about God? I believe in heaven. The Bible promises in heaven the crooked shall be made straight." Treves quips drily: "So did the rack, my boy. So do we all." It is clear that this innocent inquisitor is becoming the doctor’s rack; "If you are angry, just say it," he at last explodes. "Say it: I am angry. Go on. I am angry. I am angry! I am angry!"

"I believe in heaven," replies the Model Christian.

Is this cruelty or kindness? The words are brought home in the title of the next dream scene. Stepping forward smartly with top hat and cane, a transformed Merrick turns anatomist to dissect the moral deformities of the "terrifyingly normal" scientist hunched miserably in his chair. The Brechtian scene jars our sympathy for Merrick, our easy tolerance for the victim’s imitative failures of compassion. Merrick is morally correct yet lacks moral imagination. We, as witnesses of his social and moral deformation, see that he has taken on several new double identities since his comparatively simpler elephant/manhood. He accepts the new artificial self that society imposes, but he also judges it; his innocence is provoking, perverse; his very goodness has evil effects, yet his cruelty also registers an essential sense of justice.

Scene after scene ends with Merrick silently placing another piece on the model of St. Philip’s as he struggles to realize spiritual being. Yet even as he constructs the model of loveliness, he is deconstructing Treves. When the distressed surgeon falls at last into the arms of the uncomprehending but kindly bishop with the half-articulate cry, "Help me," Merrick places the last piece and says quietly, "It is done." In this chilling moment the emotionless Merrick seems a predatory child-monster, the social victim so brutalized he can but excel in revenge, the aesthete who cares only for his art.

In an introductory note to the published play (Grove, 1979). Pomerance writes that the church model is "some kind of central metaphor, and the groping toward the conditions where it can be built and the building of it are the action of the play." One of the inescapable conditions for Merrick’s childlike faith is his persistent questioning of divine justice. Pleasing those who see him as an exemplar of self-help, he can boast that he builds this ambiguous symbol of his hope "with one hand" -- the graceful one. But this triumph is yet a reminder of the man’s incompleteness, of the other hand resembling a beastly vestige from an earlier evolutionary stage. Merrick slyly observes that God, in creating him, "should have used both hands, shouldn’t he?"

Merrick’s Religion

Rapidly following upon the completion of the model comes Merrick’s "accidental" death by asphyxiation. His deformity requires him to sleep sitting up, but during a fatal dream he straightens into normal sleeping position and the weight of his enormous head crushes his windpipe. As the church model looms like the dollhouse in Tiny Alice, this ending seems to evoke absurdist drama. Yet Merrick’s death is not arbitrary and meaningless. For one thing, the play has expressed too firm (indeed, at times, too morally confident) a sense of social injustice to allow such an interpretation. The death represents the culmination of Merrick’s long murder by society, by its deliberate as well as its casual brutalities.

At the same time the death seems the unconscious suicide of a disillusioned man, a suicide for which the others also are guilty. In one figure that the play proposes, Merrick is asphyxiated by the weight of others’ dreams. In another, Merrick, as a polished mirror for others’ self-images, discovers that he reflects their nothingness; and, as an early scene title announces, "When the Illusion Ends He Must Kill Himself." When Merrick sees no more evidence of spirit, he puts down his head to cut off his own breath.

Merrick’s end also fulfills the potential of an earlier stage allusion to crucifixion: when his head tilts back too far and his arms claw the air, his final posture barely suggests an imitatio Christi. Prompted by dream sirens to "Sleep like others you learn to admire/Be like your mother, be like your sire," Merrick formally imitates the dead maternal figure (whose photo he keeps under his pillow) and the equivocal paternal figure of Jesus/Treves (whose names have been linked). Merrick’s "sire" seems both cruel and merciful, just as this death is a horrible end yet releases him from a life of pain and humiliation. In imitating a kind of crucifixion, Merrick also invokes the traditional poetry of an older religion that for some of the Late Romantics retained its "traditional sanctity and loveliness" (as Yeats wrote) if not its grounding in historical truth.

And, coming so soon after the completion of the church model, Merrick’s death is complicated by its very aestheticism, its poetry of religion in the achievement of immortal form: for now he is "straight." If for the aesthetes in the 1880s "Life is ritual," death too is ritual and, like life, imitates art in the play. Merrick’s aesthetic end makes its spirited protest against "Nature’s lack of design" and God’s providence even as it barely suggests an act of faith.

Theatricality is another of the evident conditions for Merrick’s religion. Treves tells Bishop How that Merrick is "very excited to do what others do if he thinks it is what others do." Yet the agnostic scientist stoutly refuses to cast doubt on Merrick’s faith. In the absence of proof that the God so confidently invoked by the orthodox bishop really exists in the world, perhaps Merrick in his last moments is yet attempting, in his confused way, to "Follow the way by which [others] began," as Pascal wrote, accepting the sacraments, discipline and consolations of the church and now imitating Christ’s death as if he believed in their efficacy. The pity of Merrick’s end is that he seems to have almost nothing to lose in a wager on heavenly deliverance. And made straight only in the posture of his mortality, he provides Brechtian proof that in a world where people do not live justly and mercifully with one another, a person cannot both be "good" and survive.

Final Ritual

In the last ritualistic moments of the play, the others gather around the church model for a funereal tableau to pay their respects to a mystery. The ambience of this ending reminds that the loveliness Merrick had communicated to others was suggestive of the elusive possibility of some "other" kind of existence where love and justice may be no illusion.

It is not with a sense of meaningless waste that the play leaves its audience, but rather with the dark wonder of Pascal’s words in the Pensées: "Vere tu es Deus absconditus." The author of this existence, whom Merrick arraigns and admires, hides himself within the play from the Elephant Man and from others, but it is not necessary to conclude that he is absent.

The Intelligence ‘Flap’: Lies My Uncle Told Me

Once upon a time there was the frank and fearless liar -- but sooner or later the facts would out, and make an end of him. Now we have the bureaucrat, mumbling and amnesiac; the master of plausible denials and institutionalized cover-up; the limited investigation and the interpretive memo; the document-shredders, the secrecy-stampers, the propaganda machinists. And it is no longer so easy to find them out. It took 15 months and $3 million for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence to unearth some of the things our masters of deceit were not telling us about -- and to frame legal remedies for keeping our intelligence establishment more nearly honest and law-abiding in the future.

Now that the Senate panel chaired by Frank Church has released its censored final report, we can assess the findings of the most extended peek in our history into the baroque machinations of U.S. intelligence. Although the initial waves of outrage have subsided; our unhappy right to know has burdened us with large responsibilities for the future. Without strong public pressure, the Congress may be unable to sustain a critical posture toward the executive branch with its insistent claim that national security requires public trust in secret power. The House has already retreated, turning around from its aggressive inquiry into the spy establishment to compliant, worried investigation of itself. Nonetheless, what this past year’s massive congressional effort has taught us we cannot afford to forget: that more than any House leak or Senate revelation, the subversive activities of the FBI, CIA and Department of Defense have seriously undermined the security of the Republic, within and without.

I

"This is a report that probably should never have been written," declares Senator Barry Goldwater in dissent from the Senate panel’s final report. It has indeed caused "severe embarrassment" to the nation, as he laments, for the Senate investigation has laid before the public the elements of a terrible irony: that acts which are illegal and unethical for citizens to engage in at home are condoned, even aggressively pursued, by American law-enforcement officers and secret agents both at home and abroad.

Thus while FBI’s COINTELPRO prying violated the civil liberties of Americans unjustly suspected of subversion, the CIA was conspiring to overthrow governments abroad, fix their elections, and assassinate their leaders. While the FBI claimed it was hunting out terrorists and preventing violent acts, both CIA and FBI were inciting groups to violence, here and overseas. The FBI tried to smear student activists by linking drug use with "Red Chinese" narcotics plots to "weaken" our youth; the CIA and the army, meanwhile, were secretly spending millions for LSD experiments on unsuspecting persons, several of whom died, and shredding the evidence afterward. Responding to threats real and imagined -- and the report documents both kinds of dangers -- we adopted methods "more ruthless than the enemy," as a major 1950s policy statement advised, and our adversaries became ourselves.

No communist plot could have succeeded so well to undermine American values and institutions. Even more disturbing than the now-familiar horror stories about what government agents have done to protect America are all the report’s examples of how little was done to protect us from them. The Senate Select Committee concluded that our system of checks and balances has failed to curb secret power. Six Presidents from Franklin Roosevelt to Richard Nixon, other top-level officials, and particularly the attorneys general "virtually abdicated their constitutional responsibility to oversee and set standards for intelligence activity." Second, Congress has exercised lax oversight, bowing to the will of the executive, and framed such vague, inadequate laws that the intelligence agencies have filled in almost at whim the blank checks at their disposal. Although the Constitution requires disclosure of how public monies are spent, Congress has never asserted its right to know the extent of the financial empire which intelligence commands.

Third, the judiciary has been reluctant to intervene, even where laws have clearly been broken. As the ACLU’s Christine Marwick writes, for years the Justice Department promised the CIA that

there would be no prosecutions for CIA illegalities if a trial would threaten to reveal classified information. And since virtually all information about an organization created for clandestine activities is secret, there were no prosecutions for, illegal programs. As the Pike Committee observed, the CIA was not out of control, it was "utterly responsive to the instructions of the President." It simply appeared to the naïve outsider to be out of control because it was, in fact, beyond the law ["Reforming the Intelligence Agencies," First Principles (March 1976), p. 5].

In the intelligence "flap" as in Watergate, it has been the Fourth Estate -- the press -- that has played the most vigilant watchdog role, despite the CIA’s and the FBI’s devious efforts to co-opt or discredit the media.

During its investigations the Senate panel probed hard to find evidence of respect for law in the daily operations of intelligence. Certainly, honest and laudable officials are mentioned in the report. But an overwhelming number of cases turned up habitual, even institutionalized, disregard for law. Repeatedly inspectors general warned about "potential flap activities" -- not crimes. FBI memos acknowledged illegality but authorized bugs and black-bag jobs anyway because they were "invaluable techniques" "necessary" for protecting the nation. The head of the FBI’s Intelligence Division testified that he never heard anyone raise legal or ethical questions: "We never gave any thought to this line of reasoning, because we were just naturally pragmatic. How persistently officials maneuvered to elude the requirements of law is well documented in the report:

• Although COINTELPRO came to light in 1971 -- with its disregard of First Amendment freedoms and its massive violations of federal and state statutes against mail and wire fraud, incitement to violence, extortion, and sending obscene material through the mail -- the Justice Department did not look into the program until 1974, and even then it uncovered no crimes. Its report, only mildly alarmed, was based on misleading FBI-prepared "short summaries" of COINTEL incidents. That same year Justice also issued sweeping authorizations for more COINTEL-type FBI investigations of "subversives," potential civil disorders and "potential crimes."

• When President Johnson’s Katzenbach Commission told federal agencies to halt covert financial relationships with "U.S. educational and private voluntary organizations which operate abroad," CIA sent out a field circular stressing stringent secrecy to prevent more exposes. "In simple terms," the circular said, "we are now in a different ballgame. Some of the basic ground rules have changed." Among the CIA’s clever ruses was to shift the covert "ballgame" from institutions to the individuals within them. If CIA no longer funds the National Student Association, it uses exchange students (some hold government grants) to collect intelligence overseas. Even today the CIA is using "several hundred American academics" to provide leads, make introductions for intelligence purposes, and write propaganda theme material." Some are used "operationally," and at most of the institutions involved, no one knows of the CIA link except the agent-professor.

The CIA was not the only agile partner in this little dance of "reform." Katzenbach testified that his commission was (in the report’s words) "designed by President Johnson . . . to head off a full-scale Congressional investigation."

• In the past congressional oversight has all too often been no more sharp-eyed than Edward V. Long’s hearings in 1966 on electronic surveillance. The senator allowed FBI agents to write his press release stating that the subcommittee had "conducted exhaustive research" and was now "fully satisfied" that the FBI had not abused its bugging authority. The "exhaustive" peek was a 90-minute briefing from the FBI which failed to disclose the bureau’s most serious misdeeds. Wrote one bureau official to the associate director afterward: "We have neutralized the threat of being embarrassed by the Long Subcommittee.

While the existing intelligence charters are vague, it can hardly be argued that the officials who systematically broke the law did not know what they were doing. A 1957 CIA memo called its drug experiments unethical and illegal" six years before they were halted. While former CIA Director William Colby was publicly taking the line that the President has constitutional power to conduct covert operations, Colby himself had approved an internal CIA study which found that, prior to the 1974 Foreign Assistance Act, there were no legal or constitutional grounds for covert action without the advance approval of Congress. From 1969 on, CIA Director Helms sent warnings to the White House that CHAOS the domestic spying scheme which came perilously close to giving us a secret "thought police" -- had gone beyond the CIA charter. "I need not emphasize how extremely sensitive this makes the paper," Helms wrote in a study of "Restless Youth." The program -- which was mandated to find proof that foreign elements supported the American peace movement (any kind of support, even "encouragement," "casual contacts" or "mutual interest") -- was not halted until March 1974.

To compound the problem of questionable legal authority, only recently did Congress become fully aware that a "secret charter" existed for the nation’s cloak-and-daggering -- the accumulated classified executive orders issued over the years. While Americans could debate the overt reform proposals in President Ford’s February order (see March 10 Century editorial, p. 211), we may never know the full content of Executive Order 11905, which merely hints that "in some instances detailed implementation of the Executive Order will be contained in classified documents." On national television Ford said that he trusted the American people to elect honest Presidents who would not abuse the powers of secrecy, and in his message to Congress he proclaimed that his plan for reform "places responsibility and accountability on individuals, not institutions." Long before the exposure of the CIA began, Richard Helms likewise maintained that the country had to "take it on faith that we, too, are honorable men."

Yet the American system is one not of persons but of laws. And in such a system, as Justice Louis Brandeis wrote in 1928, the "existence of the government will be imperiled if it fails to observe the law scrupulously. . . . If the government becomes a lawbreaker, it breeds contempt for law; it invites every man to become a law unto himself; it invites anarchy" (Olmstead v. United States). In COINTELPRO, the Senate report found, "the bureau secretly took the law into its own hands," and the consequence was anarchy. If the FBI’s own agents did not directly carry out murder plots, the bureau intensified the climate of violence in which black leaders were slain -- just as the CIA set the stage for the kidnapping and then the shooting of General Rent Schneider in Chile and the bloody overthrow of Salvador Allende three years later.

II

Within this atmosphere of deceit which clandestine work seems to require, the FBI still manipulates the American media and the CIA fuels an international propaganda machine -- most likely the biggest covert operation of them all. Although for years the CIA has assured the media that it was planting no informers on their news teams, until February of this year CIA was using 50 unnamed American journalists and media employees for covert purposes. The CIA director pledged in February that the agency "will not enter into any paid or contractual relationship with any full-time or part-time news correspondent accredited by any U.S. news service, newspaper, periodical, radio or television network or station." But the new policy permits the continuing -- perhaps now expanding -- use of at least two dozen journalists who are free-lance, unaccredited, unpaid, or rewarded by CIA "briefings" in lieu of money -- as well as the use of American news executives who have been important "media assets" in the past.

On May 10 George Bush issued a further opinion -- that the CIA "should not be precluded" from using part-time journalists who want to cooperate with the agency. The CIA continues its refusal to give out names of its media "assets" -- especially not to American editors who want to clean house. In world news media the CIA is also using "several hundred foreign individuals around the world" who "provide the CIA with direct access to a large number of foreign newspapers and periodicals, scores of press services and news agencies, radio and television stations, commercial book publishers, and other foreign media outlets" (italics in the Senate report indicate agency censoring). In the past the CIA has maintained two "proprietary news services" in Europe, one of which served 30 U.S. newspapers, as well as regularly planting stories in the foreign press and frequently using Reuters, the well-respected news service which is considered fair game because it is British-based.

Because propaganda is aimed first at the intangible -- the shaping of perceptions -- its effects are hard to measure, especially when it comes from invisible sources. "The most important weapon of strategic propaganda" is the book, as one former Clandestine Service officer testified. CIA has been in the book business for several decades: before 1967 it "sponsored, subsidized or produced over 1,000 books," many of which were put out by CIA-backed cultural organizations whose subsidy was "more often than not" unknown to the writer. The CIA-commissioned Penkovskiy Papers (Doubleday, 1965) was a commercial success; the publisher never knew of the CIA link. When Penkovskiy was serialized in the Washington Post and 29 other U.S. newspapers, the Russians denounced the book as the "coarse fraud" it was, and, notes former Moscow correspondent Stephen S. Rosenfeld, they retaliated by closing the Post’s Moscow bureau for two years.

In 1967 -- a year of 200 CIA books, among them translations of Machiavelli’s The Prince into Swahili and T. S. Eliot’s works into Russian -- the CIA pledged it would no longer "publish books, magazines and newspapers in the United States." That same year, however, an agency order announced that "fallout in, the United States from a foreign publication which we support is inevitable and consequently permissible." The CIA’s leap in amoral logic was elucidated by testimony from E. Howard Hunt, in charge of the CIA’s U.S. publisher contacts in the late 1960s, who said that domestic fallout may not (in the report’s words) "have been unintentional."

The Senate report quotes a September 1970 cable summary during CIA’s propaganda program in Chile to suggest that the agency regularly expected "fallout":

Sao Paulo, Tegucigalpa, Buenos Aires, Lima, Montevideo, Bogota, Mexico City report continued replay of Chile theme materials. Items also carried in New York Times, Washington Post. Propaganda activities continue to generate good coverage of Chile developments along our theme guidance. . .

Domestic fallout is "permissible" not only because it is inevitable but also because it is desirable -- especially where the selective release of "facts" or the currency of agency-favored ideas serves an ideological line or stratagem. To some it may seem acceptable, if distasteful, for propagandists hired by our government to tell lies in order to protect American democracy. Yet the implication is that our government and way of life have a monopoly on truth -- an attitude characteristic of totalitarian states, not one embodied in traditional American values. If Senate-approved treaties affirm our respect for the sovereignty of other nations, we cannot permit our government’s undercover agents to mount attacks -- military or verbal -- that threaten the right to self-determination; no matter how misguided we may judge other nations to be.

Like most other questionable secret designs recently made public, propaganda is justified as counterweight to ‘enemy propagandizing. Yet as the Senate report simply puts it: "The strongest defense a free country has from propaganda of any kind is a free and vigorous press that expresses diverse points of view" -- without its credibility being jeopardized by our own covert propagandists. There are a number of stories in the Senate report which document an ingenious system by which propaganda is made to look like the real thing: CIA’s domestic "plants" can legitimize "news" reprinted abroad, while domestic fallout gives credibility to stories planted initially in the foreign press. Besides polluting the free flow of ideas, manipulations such as these are nothing less than subversive: they undermine the United States and its institutions -- universities, the press, charitable groups, foundations and the churches -- by exploiting the legitimacy they may inherently possess, in order to gain for insidious designs credibility which the CIA would not otherwise be able to command.

When the Church panel found that the FBI too had been using "friendly" reporters at least through 1973, the bureau insisted that if names were published the reporters might "dry up" as sources of information -- thus implying that the practice is still going on. Under Hoover the FBI’s press liaison was the head of the Crime Records Division, who disseminated to the bureau’s "press friends" information to discredit the FBI’s critics and targets and to disrupt their activities. The most massive FBI propaganda effort is now well known: the vicious campaign to take Martin Luther King "off his pedestal" by planting derogatory articles in the media, peddling secret tapes to journalists (such as Ben Bradlee when he was Newsweek’s Washington bureau chief), and sending threat letters to King and his wife, Coretta. The bureau’s specialty in covert propaganda has been forged poison-pen letters, such as those sent to sow fear and hate among rival black groups so that their members might be provoked -- and some were -- to kill each other off.

Hoover’s propagandists aimed also at influencing foreign policy during the Vietnam years -- leading policy-makers to believe that antiwar sentiment was communist-inspired and thus did not need to be taken seriously. Hoover asked for and got reports that judged communist influence in the civil rights movement "vitally important" even though his bureau had found it an "obvious failure." Nevertheless, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was hounded for 25 years, despite an early report noting the NAACP’s "strong tendency" to "steer clear of communist activities." (In all, the FBI conducted more than a half-million investigations of alleged "subversives," yet was not able to prosecute a single individual or group for planning or advocating overthrow of the government.)

The most recent instance of an overt propaganda campaign has been the CIA’s public-relations effort to discredit its critics in the congressional inquiries. In December when CIA’s Athens station chief, Richard Welch, ‘was ambushed outside his home and killed -- after his name, along with those of other agents, had appeared in the offbeat magazine Counter-Spy -- the CIA at last unleashed its secret weapon: the public hero.

According to Daniel Schorr’s journal of those days ("My 17 Months on the CIA Watch," Rolling Stone [April 8], p. 92), the plane carrying Welch’s body was timed to touch down at Andrews Air Force Base for live TV coverage on the morning news shows; the funeral and civilian Welch’s special burial in Arlington National Cemetery -- with full military honors and the same caisson that carried the body of President Kennedy -- was elaborately orchestrated to impress upon Congress and the press the dire consequences of their reckless probes and leaks. Blaming Welch’s death on the press was grossly unfair; and there are several good reasons to believe that Welch’s "cover" may already have worn dangerously thin before his name was published. For one, his residence had been the home of the former Athens CIA chief; for another, counterspies could find good clues of our agents’ identities in the State Department’s own Foreign Service List (which ceased publication in March) and its Biographic Register (now published only on a restricted basis in order to protect State’s employees abroad, according to the department’s policy statement -- which mentioned Welch’s death).

When Daniel Schorr of CBS leaked the secret House intelligence report to the Village Voice in February, accusations grew louder that Congress could not be trusted with oversight. The people believed. Writing in the New York Review of Books (April 1), I. F. Stone made an astonishingly persuasive case for the bizarre possibility that the CIA leaked the House report to an unwitting Schorr -- a masterstroke which channeled public anger toward a virulent "secrecy backlash."

III

"It used to be that a person could live isolated from the world’s problems," muses the "Peanuts" character Lucy, playing psychiatrist. "Then it got to be that we all knew everything that was going on. The problem now," she tells poor Snoopy, "is that we know everything about everything except what’s going on. That’s why you feel nervous. . . . Five cents, please!" Given the clandestine community’s past record, now only tough legal restraints and congressional oversight -- as well as genuinely independent review at the executive level and a special prosecutor for intelligence cases -- can assure that intelligence will serve us. Otherwise, the American people will be short more than a nickel, we’ll still be nervous, and we still won’t know what is going on.

The Senate Select Committee asked for a new oversight panel to draft omnibus legislation to recast the National Security Act of 1947 and frame explicit intelligence charters. Two initial "reform" efforts -- President Ford’s February executive order and Attorney General Edward Levi’s April FBI guidelines on domestic investigations -- are not yet embodied in law. While many of the Church committee’s 183 recommendations entrust oversight responsibilities to agency types, cabinet officers, and President’s men who have been untrustworthy in the past, the Church plan taken as a whole attempts to put our check-and-balance system into better working order -- not to tie the hands of intelligence but to enable it to serve a democratic society’s needs without undermining its cherished principles. Some of the Church committee’s key points of reform are these:

* The CIA, the National Security Agency, and the clandestine arms of the Department of Defense must stay out of the domestic arena. Only the FBI should conduct domestic security investigations which are aimed at acts that violate federal laws. Under restrictions which some senators believe are not stringent enough, "preventive intelligence investigations" are’ allowed in order to head off terrorist plots or counteract the designs of hostile foreign agents. Current bureau practices suggest that new laws, recommended by the panel, must be enacted to prevent COINTELPRO redux: the FBI still has a half-million domestic intelligence files and has budgeted for the current fiscal year $7 million to pay domestic security informants -- twice that spent for informants against organized crime. In remarks appended to the Senate’s domestic report, Senator Philip A. Hart warns that laws should not be framed for times of national calm, but "for the next periods of social turmoil and passionate dissent, when the current outrage has faded and those in power may again be tempted to investigate their critics in the name of national security."

• A "comprehensive civil remedies statute" should be enacted to give American citizens clear claim for litigation against the government. The Justice Department is making efforts to notify COINTELPRO victims, and under the Freedom of Information Act citizens may succeed in finding out about intelligence activity directed against them (a local ACLU office can help).

• The CIA must get out of the covert publishing business in the U.S. While the "operational" use of American academics would not be banned, top university officials must be informed of CIA use. Laws are also recommended to prohibit the operational use of missionaries and media personnel. (In February the CIA announced it had "no secret paid or contractual relationships" with U.S. clergy, but said it would "continue to welcome information" from voluntary clergy-informants. Even when requested by the churches, former CIA Director Colby had refused to halt the use of missionaries; the CIA under George Bush still insists that there is no "impropriety" in its clergy and media use. The Senate report tells of a Third World pastor-agent who carried out covert-action projects, developed CIA "assets," and passed its propaganda to the local press. He or she was only one of 21 similarly cooperative clergy.)

• Covert activities, the Church panel says, should be employed only by the CIA and only when "required by extraordinary circumstances to deal with grave threats to national security" -- a definition that would drastically curtail CIA’s past habits. Going beyond President Ford’s proposal, the senators would ban all political assassinations, fixing of democratic elections, and covert support for foreign police that systematically violate human rights.

• The senators have asked that the FBI director be limited to an eight-year term, and they have charted myriad bureaucratic changes to improve intelligence effectiveness and to create "paper trails" of accountability. Building on Ford’s plan for strengthening the role of the Director of Central Intelligence, the Church committee would have the DCI prepare the budget and allocate resources for the entire clandestine community. His post should be separated from that of CIA head in order to avoid a conflict of interest.

• The central element in the Church plan is a powerful, well-informed Senate oversight committee with rotating membership, budgetary authority, legislative powers, and the right to receive advance notice of all "significant" covert operations. However the Senate’s oversight apparatus will actually function -- and that will be subject to some senatorial political machinations -- it is well to keep in mind Senator Mike Mansfield’s general warning against "a committee cloaked with only apparent importance, . . . in the end so impotent that it would itself become a creature if not an active conspirator within the community over which it must exert scrutiny."

IV

In an age of proliferating nuclear powers, it would be ‘naive to propose that we have no need for intelligence services. It would be equally naive to trust the clandestine establishment as the sole, secret guardian of our national security. The Senate panel has attempted to steer carefully between these twin naïvetés. It has envisioned comprehensive, if cautious, reform which we clearly need: yet for a number of reasons, it is altogether possible that we could get something considerably less.

First there is the nature of the Senate inquiry itself. Avoiding the House committee’s adversary style and appearance of leakiness, the Senate panel strove to be a tight-lipped model for future oversight. The committee held most of its hearings in secret and worked closely with the administration, even deleting at its request 200 pages from the published text. Names are frequently missing, and, like the full House, the Senate panel voted at the last minute not to reveal the total intelligence budget. The concessions made to secrecy seem to have undermined the impact of the report -- and even helped those forces which oppose strong oversight. Three panel members -- Senators Walter F. Mondale, Philip A. Hart and Gary Hart -- have warned that the report is "diluted" in important respects, and that the secrecy stamp has caused some of the report’s "most important implications [to be] either lost or obscured in vague language."

In mid-May, however, the committee mounted an effective media strategy by steadily releasing a stream of 15 supplementary reports, which made the nightly news with graphic tales of abuse for several weeks. The strategy forced the directors of CIA and IRS to reply, and finally -- after all this time -- wrung a down-in-the-mouth public apology from Clarence Kelley, the FBI head who has been under pressure from the ranks of bureau faithful not to confess Hoover’s wrongdoing. While drama was needed to heat the debate up again, zeal for reform is likely to cool as the refinements of law are worked out in the coming year.

The times are also against reform. After the massive losses of Vietnam and Watergate, the intelligence debate is set at a historic’ juncture for U.S. international leadership and trust in American institutions at home. It is commonly realized that political agreement about covert operations has disintegrated. During oversight debate earlier this year, former CIA head John McCone urged that the cold-war consensus be rebuilt. World events, national politics -- and covert propaganda somewhere? -- seem already to be moving the United States toward a ‘70s version of that old consensus, in spite of lessons learned. This emerging climate of opinion could block the overhaul of intelligence agencies -- without which, in Nelson Rockefeller’s words, we would be "a sitting duck in a world of loaded shotguns."

In times that tolerate such cold-war rhetoric (and a gargantuan new defense budget), security and national security have become common themes for an election year in which an ailing economy has further weakened a progressive national spirit. Campaign language everywhere betrays fears of the loss of American omnipotence -- or rather that delusion of superpower, in the view of Frank Church, which dispatches squads of covert agents to police the world. In this climate the intelligence "flap" is a non-issue. While big-government fears fuel the presidential campaigns, the real menace of Big Brother government provokes from the major candidates nary a whisper. The perennial inanities of our national politicking are in part responsible for this omission. The intelligence issue is far too complex and abstract to lend itself to sloganeering and headline-length promises. We have heard more campaign yawp about abortion -- an important issue but one with which Presidents have little to do -- than about where each hopeful stands on civil-liberties issues such as Senate Bill One. Where would each candidate draw the line on covert activities? How would he see his role as chief of the most awesome system of clandestine power in the world?

Although intelligence reform is fundamentally a law-and-order issue which ought to appeal to conservative voters, this cautious election year augurs ill for reform in two additional ways. The widespread reaction against the 1960s makes it hard for many to sympathize with the victims of those years -- with the single exception of Martin Luther King. The candidates know this. They are not about to champion the Socialist Workers Party, slain Black Panthers and New Left activists -- although these are only the most outrageously maligned of the multitude spied upon, which included such sterling citizens as Eleanor Roosevelt and thousands of ordinary, tax-return-filing Americans. We are still, it seems, unwittingly suffering from the deceits of COINTELPRO propaganda. It becomes difficult to picture those years other than the way we perceived them then -- and in the collective consciousness of the electorate, it was all so long ago.

The test of vigilance which faces the American public comes in the year of our bicentennial when most of all we should, in the words of Tom Paine, "refresh our patriotism by reference to first principles." Yet the congressional probing of intelligence was inevitably anticlimactic after Watergate’s daily drama; and the audience, given to ephemeral intensities, soon got tired of the show. There are other reasons too why our vigilance has flagged. In a New Republic interview with Oriana Fallaci, Congressman Otis Pike speaks about why House members have not rushed out to read the guarded copies of the intelligence report they had voted to keep to themselves:

Oh, they think it is better not to know. There are too many things that embarrass Americans in that report. You see, this country went through an awful trauma with Watergate. But, even then, all they were asked to believe was that their President had been a bad person. In this new situation they are asked much more; they are asked to believe that their country has been evil. And nobody wants to believe that. . . . I was one of [those who believed the government]. It took this investigation to convince me that I had always been told lies, to make me realize that I was tired of being told lies [April 3, 1976, p. 10].

Perhaps it is hard to feel some personal animus toward typical bureau mumblings that defend the indefensible, like Clarence Kelley’s apology for the FBI ("Power abused perhaps can be explained and possibly even be excused, but only when the explanation is truthful, contrite, and is accompanied by a well-defined plan to prevent a recurrence"). In the broadest of human terms it is no unique indictment that the average American citizen finds it hard to care very much about what the CIA has done. All of us like a personal world -- we revel in gossip, in the Nixon of the bedroom and the White House chapel. We want persons behind the evil events of our times. The congressional inquiries did not raise up new national heroes or villains.

As the psychologist Ernest Becker has written, for the sensitive soul the impersonality of evil -- the central fact of the contemporary world -- is unbearable: it is, as he says, too much to believe. What has begun to seep into public consciousness is that the horror of the CIA -- and in the end, all of intelligence, "theirs" or "ours" -- is its impersonality, expressed in its bland, emotionless, mind-deadening prose. We know that its faceless agents are "out there" -- though we do not know quite where even now -- on missions that sacrifice persons to ideology, human relationships to "contacts" and "assets," hearts and minds to the gears of the propaganda machine. If the horror of CIA is its abstract impersonality, that is also its impenetrable advantage: for we cannot act against what is vastly beyond our power to see and believe.

Legal issues are abstract, and as the framing of new intelligence laws goes on through the rest of the year, most Americans will probably not be able to keep up with all the detail. The danger of partial, compromised reform is that it might create nothing more than a framework of loopholes -- a set-up for CIA’s vanishing acts. If Americans do not press for stringent intelligence laws in the emerging cold-war climate of Congress and country, even the news that reform has been done could turn out to be the biggest lie yet that my Uncle Sam told me.

The Birth of Evil: Genesis According to Bergman

THE SERPENT’S EGG -- the film Ingmar Bergman has been making in Germany since his self-imposed exile from Sweden -- takes as its penetrating metaphor for evil a conspiracy of poisoners in the Weimar Republic. It is 1923: inside Berlin’s familiarly seedy cabarets, where feverish jazz flares up and expires, the dancers’ wigs are tinted gangrene. Outside in the dirty rain, fear rises from the slick cobblestones of the Albertstrasse like a contaminating incense. Fear is this film’s ambience: in the smoky half-light, streets wind into cul-de-sacs where anonymous figures, stuffing shapeless bags, rush furtively away; departing citizens draw their own laden carts through the dismal urban dawn; blood from slaughtered drayhorses seeps steaming into the streets.

The times are harsh: a pack of cigarettes costs 13 million marks; there is no milk; there is scarcely any food. In this apocalyptic postwar landscape, we are warned, fear and despair will one day rise to fury and "this world will go down in blood and fire." Water would equally suffice: the rain’s persistent monotone portends the Deluge to come. At intervals a documentary voice counts down seven days toward November 11, 1923, and the film’s anticlimax in the distant background -- Hitler’s premature Putsch in Munich -- while in the foreground all the arks of refuge are sinking.

Into his historical frame, Bergman puts two fragile characters: Abel Rosenberg (David Carradine), an American Jew adrift in Berlin and a trapeze artist out of work because his brother and partner Max has broken his wrist; and Manuela (Liv Ullmann), Abel’s sister-in-law, now estranged from her husband, who dances in the cabaret Zum Blauen Esel and hustles enough on the side to survive rather better than most. The story of Abel and Manuela, refugees from the circus who are thrown together after Max commits suicide in the opening scene, is cursed from its genesis.

I

Accelerating Bergman’s movement away from identifiable film genres, Serpent’s Egg (in color and in English) is an omnium-gatherum of detective thriller, documentary, gothic science fiction, political tract, psychiatric case study, and postwar romance. But it is not a story of love among the ruins, not even of ruined lovers among the ruins. For Abel and Manuela, whatever Bergman’s intention, are not wholly rounded characters in whose gradual disintegration we might trace the effects of "poisoning." Nor do they have a "story": their narrative line curves steadily downward, a mere slope for successive collapses.

While the secret drug experiments in a second plot permit Bergman to pursue his interest in deranged states, he has not in Serpent’s Egg imagined provocatively detailed psyches like those in Persona or even Scenes from a Marriage. Given what Bergman’s devotees have lately come to expect and what this newest, puzzling film fails to deliver, it is no surprise that many critics have found its limited emotional range finally banal. If this be the true estimate, the reasons for Bergman’s failure may lie deeper than a mistaken aesthetic choice to thin the psychological matrix in order to thicken the political soup in which his two protagonists find themselves in the Berlin of 1923.

It is also true, however, that Bergman-in-exile really is up to something new. The genesis of Nazi Germany in the 1920s is Bergman’s historical occasion for projecting the violent political consequences of mass dread for our own time. The Serpent’s Egg is a scarifying sermon on evil’s birth in our century, but more than this it is a metaphysical nightmare about the abyss of guilt engulfing us all since the history of human lapses began. For better or worse, Bergman has rewritten Genesis: the fall and flood narratives and the familiar Cain-and-Abel theme he reworks with a vengeance that aspires to the divine.

The Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth. . . . And the Lord was sorry that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart. So the Lord said, "I will blot out man whom I have created from the face of the ground . . . for I am sorry that I have made them" [Gen. 6:7].

We’ll close earlier tonight and shorten the program. It’s useless staying open. I’ve never seen anything like this rain. Maybe it’s the Flood. Cheers, Herr Rosenberg [Solomon, cabaret owner in The Serpent’s Egg].

When Bergman’s Cain (the trapeze artist Max) "kills" his brother Abel, we witness no straightforward tale of fratricide avenged by the Lord. First of all, in the brutal opening scene, Cain-Max has blasted his own brains to a rosy pulp in the shabby room he shares with Abel. But Max’s shocking self-murder also hastens the last stages of his brother’s moral dying. In Bergman’s version it is Abel who must live with the consequences of Cain’s crime, and Abel for whom spiritual death-in-life means exile from his own recognizable humanity.

From the moment he sees what his brother has done, Abel Rosenberg’s countenance falls (Gen. 4:5) -- and continues to fall lower and lower still as the film rolls relentlessly on. Every sunken line in the ravaged, boyish face of David Carradine incarnates Cain’s cry to the Lord: "My punishment is greater than I can bear" (Gen. 4:13). As though he is singled out with the mark of Cain ("lest any who came upon him should kill him" [Gen. 4:15]), Abel miraculously survives blood-curdling threats to his physical person. Perversely he is "saved" not to be redeemed, but to exist as the guilty but impotent witness to the satanic forces that rise all around and within him. Clearly Bergman’s Abel has become Cain: "You’re your brother’s brother," says Manuela, "and no mistake"

What this identifying of the victim with the murderer first of all brings home is the unholy alliance of innocence and guilt -- a theme relentlessly pressed upon the viewer of Serpent’s Egg, no matter which character one looks to for some definitively redeeming grace note of courage, humane intelligence, compassion or simple kindness. A passive wanderer and finally a fugitive, Abel at first has committed no specific crime except the waste of his life in economically hard times that have conspired against him. But the crimes he comes to commit (theft, assault, a partly accidental murder in self-defense) unfold the existential guilt in which Abel has been implicated all along, a "misconstruction" like all his brothers. In Abel’s somnambulism there is an implied sadomasochistic brutality, and when his suppressed violence breaks out against Manuela, an old couple, a whore, an elderly archivist and himself, we see even in this baby-faced victim the archetypal aggressor. Abel too, his "brother’s brother," is direct heir of his father Adam’s fall.

Manuela is also an exemplum in Bergman’s stern sermon on the death of innocence. A whore who compromises her profession with tenderness, and taints tenderness with self-interest, Manuela nonetheless bears the "good" Liv Ullmann face through all her troubles and transgressions. At first she seems to offer the forlorn Abel a place if not of salvation then of refuge -- a nest crammed with Victorian bric-a-brac. But here, more ruthlessly than in Scenes from a Marriage, Bergman exposes the archetype of the maternal figure who would save, who retains an instinctive wisdom from the paradise lost. Manuela does make an effort to save Abel, but she is clearly also the devil’s gateway into false reassurances, an advocate of a treacherous personalism when the world outside is falling down. "We have all we need," she insists, yet she slips off to morning mass, unable to comfort her soul for Max’s death. Here she tells the priest Games Whitmore) that her guilt Is a ‘funny feeling. I don’t understand it; I’ve never felt it before. You’re responsible for someone and you fail in your duty, and there you stand, empty-handed and ashamed, going over and over in your mind what you should have done"

Marooned with Abel in this swamp of existential guilt, Manuela-Eve has also become, quite literally if indirectly, an agent of poisoning. The secret lover whose money and influence are keeping her alive -- a demonic scientist named Hans Vergérus (Heinz Bennent) -- induces her to tempt Abel into a new love nest which, unknown to both, is rigged for an outrageous experiment on human subjects. Here their ragged relationship is observed from behind one-way mirrors, while an odorless gas oozes into the room, causing them alternately to assault and to embrace one another. (What the minors reflect is that the essential narcissism of these two people, like others we glimpse in the Berlin world, has concealed the dangers that encompass them.) Here Manuela mysteriously sickens, her nausea equally the mark of the accomplice and of the victim.

II

Beyond the yoking of these Cain and Abel roles, Manuela’s remark "You’re your brother’s brother" bears another set of implications. The seemingly random events that befall Abel after his brother’s suicide are thematically coherent: they press home the moral that he is his brother’s keeper. Sven Nykvist’s camera pursues Abel Rosenberg as God pursued Cain, exposing the pretense that he does not know where his brother is. "I tried to keep an eye on him," he tells Manuela lamely, but he admits he "didn’t see much of [Max] these last weeks." He recalls a recent fight over a mistreated prostitute they had shared: "Then he started quarreling and got rough with her. At last I had to give him a thrashing. Then he began to scream like a small child. I didn’t hit him very hard," Abel explains. "I had to think of his bad wrist" This minimal brother-love congeals strangely after Max’s death. Instead of redeeming himself by becoming his sister-in-law’s keeper -- as her landlady and surrogate mother pleads with him to do -- Abel steals Manuela’s savings and squanders them on booze, a purchasable oblivion.

Broadening the brother-keeping theme, Inspector Bauer in an early bizarre scene collars Abel and takes him down to the reeking morgue, where inexplicably he is asked to identify body after mutilated body -- each corpse increasingly distant from his acquaintance. "‘Why are you showing me all this?" Abel at last bursts out. "But surely you don’t suspect me?" Seven mysterious deaths have occurred in his vicinity in the past month; and although Abel is no coldblooded killer, this news afterward works on his imagination while he is unaccountably, but not forcibly, detained in the inspector’s office. In these ambiguously threatening circumstances Abel suddenly leaps for "escape" -- a desperate act that lands him in jail.

That Abel is his brother’s brother makes him both the classic guilty bystander and the next victim. One night passively watching some young thugs in Neues Vaterland uniforms bludgeon a Jewish couple in the street, Abel is suddenly terrified to see that they have turned, smiling with truncheons ready, to advance on him. (Later in a drunken fury he re-enacts this scene in the dual character of aggressor-victim.) More than once the blood of other victims spatters Abel in the eyes or chest, yet he does nothing -- nor does he turn away his face.

Near the end of the film Abel hurls into action to expose the cause of Manuela’s death. But it is too late to halt the forces that propel their drama from behind the scenes. Trapped in an inner sanctum with the scientist whose drugs brought on Max’s suicide, Abel the outsider has at last become the insider, a reluctant and speechless witness. Standing next to Dr. Vergérus in the assistant’s post his brother had occupied, Abel stares at a documentary on the secret experiments at the St. Anna Klinik; and as the film "coils out like a yellowish snake," torturing Abel with its teaching of evil, astonishingly his dark features compose themselves into a horror-struck version of the doctor’s bloodless Aryan countenance.

From the start to this surprising climax and beyond it, what is thematically resonant about the continuing camera focus on David Carradine’s face is that we are forced to see Abel seeing, Abel the witness whose knowledge of evil marks him guilty. We, too, must stand passively by as Vergérus’s movie projector symbolically gives birth to evil, exhibiting atrocity as "art" -- a fact about the film within the film that is weighted with moral implications also for the maker of Serpent’s Egg.

III

So what does Inspector Bauer do in the midst of his own fear and other people’s horror? What does one do in a nightmare that happens to be real? Inspector Bauer attends to work. He tries to create a little patch of order and reason in the midst of a chaos of hopeless dissolution [Inspector Bauer to Abel].

Although more explicitly in the published screenplay, the film works with an invidious motif of Jewish self-hatred, Bergman’s metaphor for the self-alienation that sets brother against brother. But more than a racial type, Abel Rosenberg is an artist manqué who is detached from human suffering though he suffers, in vain trying to impose a pattern on the world’s chaos. In different ways all the film’s important characters are failed aesthetes -- as, indeed, was young Hitler himself. Bergman’s savaging of the irresponsible artist is perfectly appropriate in this documentary of Nazi genesis, but it also reflects bitterly on personal things past.

In the early ‘30s Bergman had lived as an exchange student with a German pastor’s family whose son belonged to a Nazi youth organization and took his Swedish friend to "stylish" rallies that climaxed in ecstasy at Wagnerian opera. In Bergman’s words, he returned to Sweden from this period of adolescent indoctrination "a little pro-Hitler fanatic" (He particularly recalls the headline "Poisoned by the Jews" -- a slogan much played upon in Serpent’s Egg.) Later when Germany was going under and pictures of the camps came out, a "kind of despair" took hold of him -- bitterness toward his father, brother and teachers, blended with guilt and self-contempt. For 20 years after, he claims, he did not vote or read a single political article. "I’m an artist," he told himself: "I belong to the world."

Bergman’s recent troubles with Sweden’s monolithic tax bureaucracy seem to have reminded him that the world he belongs to is very much a political place. In earlier works Bergman had not ignored the political, but in Serpent’s Egg he spreads before us a most ambitious cinematic tapestry in which politics and the aesthetic impulse are interwoven with the world’s woe.

Thus when a friend reads aloud a November 1923 newspaper item about a "Jewish terrorist pact" to prowl about the country and butcher "honest citizens," Bergman’s brother-artist and fellow cosmopole Abel is neither alarmed nor outraged. "What you say is interesting. But frankly, I couldn’t care less. I swing on my trapeze, I eat, sleep, and fuck," says this contemporary heir of primitive man, tossing down schnapps. "I don’t believe all that political bunkum," he goes on, only to give voice to it. "The Jews are as stupid as everyone else. If a Jew gets into trouble it’s his own fault. I’m not going to be stupid, even if I am a Jew. So I won’t get into trouble." Despite his early declaration of independence, Abel does get into scrapes which partly he brings on himself -- precisely because this former circus artist is still cultivating noninvolvement, now blotting out the rest of the world with alcohol.

Like Manuela’s nest crammed with "everything we need," the circus is portrayed as a false refuge -- both for Abel the "clever little acrobat" needing a secure job and for the audiences that swell the tent. The circus might have been the symbol of a primitive world that Abel needs to get back to. But because Bergman’s circus owner makes it brutally clear that his enterprise thrives on the despair of postwar Europe, the alternative world of magic tricks, clowning and acrobatics cannot be trusted to defy the universal gravity of everyone’s plight.

If the artist is one who rearranges the world to suit his or her pleasure, the film also suggests that the creation of art can be a form of prostitution -- the work a whorehouse where "it’s warm" and "you can have it any way you want" (a streetwalker’s plea to Abel), and the artist a whore who merely performs the procreative act, in deliberated contempt of human feeling. The link between prostitution and the circus is made by the cabaret, a border territory of artistic perversions and couplings impersonated as theater.

When a band of stormtroopers crashes onto the stage of Zum Blauen Esel yelling anti-Semitic slogans, the crowd of terrified artist-degenerates only watches as the Jewish owner’s face is smashed, methodically, to a grotesque pulp. As they leave, the Nazi hoodlums make their own sign of the apocalypse by setting ablaze the sign of the Blue Ass at the door. Their "act" is utterly nauseating, but at the same time it is impossible to disagree with them that such art as Zum Blauen Esel represents is poisonous in the Germany of 1923.

Like the circus and the cabaret, Nazi method is also perverse artistry and a form of refuge predicated on the evil from which it would deliver the times. Even the solid Social Democrat Inspector Bauer is very much a product of this Nazi-nurturing milieu he so deplores. Diligently he works to unravel his murder mystery, creating "a little patch of order and reason" for his own sake. But Bauer’s old-fashioned modes of sense-making are not that far removed after all from the avant-garde experiments of his antagonist at the St. Anna Klinik. The scientist Vergérus also imposes an aesthetic pattern in his self-appointed role as Divine Artificer, creator not of an idyllic "patch" but of a whole new society "unequaled in world history." Yet the chaos erupts: none of these figures of the artist can have things any way they want,

IV

Anyone who makes the slightest effort can see what is waiting in there in the future. It’s like a serpent’s egg. Through the thin membranes you can clearly discern the already perfect reptile.

The sermon text for Serpent’s Egg comes at the film’s climax from Vergérus, the epitome but not the sum of all the evil we have seen. What is most disturbing about the title image, however brilliantly ironic, is that it points to the kind of failure in moral imagination this film represents.

Vergérus’s rhetoric of absolute certainty -- that his conspiracy for humankind’s future is assured -- is an analogue for the insistent cinematic language through which Bergman pronounces his own assurance of our doom. The one is grounded in radically misguided hope, the other in determined hopelessness, but they come to much the same thing: both are victims of their own "conspiracy thinking," an aesthetic attitude only in that it imposes a total -- not to say totalitarian -- pattern. Another aesthetic in another film might have evoked through pattern and texture a sense of mysterious complexity in human affairs, intimately persuading us of our paradoxical potency for evil and for good. But this sense of mystery at the center of art is missing from Serpent’s Egg.

Certainly the film is abundant in mystifying visual and plot details, and through it all leers the riddle of evil that begets only. itself (which came first, the serpent or the egg?). What is so simplistically certain in the film is Bergman’s conviction -- one might almost call it a faith -- that "man is an abyss" (the epigraph from Georg Büchner) and that the abyss is all, Peering into it, Bergman has clearly discerned the already perfect reptile -- and it is that reductive vision, in all its expanding horror, that ineluctably shapes the film’s formal pattern; its visual repetitions in the gothic nightmare collage, its narrative tautologies, and its minimally human characterizations.

Thus the conspiratorial surface of things -- hidden engines ominously vibrating the walls, Kafkaesque stairways shooting off on giddy diagonals, passages winding labyrinthine through the bowels of buildings, elevator shafts gaping beyond the familiar enclosed world of office and boudoir -- all this is confirmed by the slowly closing steel trap of the narrative. And even when Inspector Bauer resolves the conspiracy plot, beyond his neat conclusion stretches the masterplot of human guilt. Abel Rosenberg’s random crimes, like the rational murders at the heart of the detective thriller, provide the perfect set of corollary proofs for this vaster conspiracy. Just as in the Genesis account no motive is given for the archetypal crime except Yahweh’s capricious disregard for Cain’s offering, so in the film the universal indifference seems to goad Abel to his criminal acts and deceits. No humane and honest response to the cosmic vacuum is conceivable, or capable of being sustained.

In the unrealized psychological portraits of Serpent’s Egg, a kind of conspiracy thinking also impoverishes the imagining of experience. The Marianne and Johan of Scenes from a Marriage were at least endowed with tenacious tenderness despite their brutality. Through all their absurdities -- at times disarmingly zany -- we saw two real people longing (and sometimes lunging) for authentic life, Like other Bergman characters, they were redeemed by the immanence of their own detailed humanity. In Serpent’s Egg we wait almost breathlessly for Abel and Manuela to disclose the texture of their inner lives, but the miracle of realization -- which would have evoked the sympathy we are ready to give -- never comes off. In these vacant characterizations, it seems that their creator is determined to obliterate the last. refuge, human nature itself, from the earth’s face.

What the film successfully presents through the transparent membrane of these lives is a shape more terrifying than psychic ruin: the serpent on the brink of birth. But the evil Bergman dreads is inevitable if lives are this transparent, this bereft of language and a future. And what, after all, does the impending catastrophe matter if people really are as lifeless as the Abel and Manuela of this film? The way that Bergman has ordered -- and failed to texture -- his cinematic world does little to counter the Vergérus theory that "man is a misconstruction" Bergman’s relentless punishment of humankind for its piteous inadequacy is finally more than we can bear, for his specimens offer so much less than what we are capable of caring about.

V

Tomorrow the abyss will open and everything will vanish in a final catastrophe, So why bother about a few paltry deaths? [Abel to Inspector Bauer].

In The Rebel Albert Camus located the genesis of despotic and apocalyptic ideologies of the West in the romantic quest for totality, an extremism that willingly yields up human happiness in the present to an abstract conception of the future. In the 20th century Camus saw this romantic hubris take one form in the Nazi reign of irrational terror, inaugurated in the name of German idealisms. "A savior is born," says one of the Nazi apologists in Serpent’s Egg. "but the delivery is taking place through pain and blood. A terrible time is at hand, but what is 30 or 40 years of suffering and death?" Like Vergérus, this littler man’s commitment to intemperate absolutes urges him, in Camus’ words, to justify the assassins of justice. But there is no moral distance between his utter faith in the future and the nihilism of Abel Rosenberg, the futureless man who also seems to care little about "a few paltry deaths." If the messianism both Bergman and Camus abhor leads to monstrous violence, so does the sort of absolutist nihilism that saturates Serpent’s Egg, a film so gory with corpses that one soon becomes deadened to it all.

A big thinker with an impoverished moral imagination, Vergérus has set up his experiments to confirm a preconception about the depths of evil to which people can be driven -- but by the scientists themselves, the men behind the cameras who document the experimental world they have made. Bergman’s cinematic experiment seems likewise tautological, his set rigged against the puppets whose jerking impersonations of humanity "prove" how abysmally dark things are. But the intemperate absolute they are invented to serve is poisonous for those among the film-viewing crowd who are becoming more and more accustomed to the abysmal dark. As Sartre has suggested, for the bourgeois theater audience the fatalistic version of human nature is ultimately reactionary: it provides the perfect pretext for preserving the way we live now.

In Serpent’s Egg Bergman has dismantled many a refuge, only to contrive a film world whose fatalistic pattern is in itself an escape, a magic act ("tomorrow everything . . . will vanish"). Hopelessness can also be a place of retreat from the agonizing possibility that life’s enigma has more than evil at its heart, and that whatever is "more" exists nowhere in this world as unfettered romantic possibility, but comes enfleshed in finitude. In Camus’s novel The Plague, when Dr. Rieux offers the judgment that "there are more things to admire in men than to despise," he risks an act of moral temperance, the intelligent and compassionate weighing of human nature. We do not have to come up with Rieux’s balance to see that this art of measure which novelists and filmmakers can teach us -- ascertaining the weights of finite things with patience and humility, and rendering them as precisely as possible in words, images and actions -- can open up the world as an arena for limited freedom, for solidarity and for occasional feats of imaginative transcendence.

The mystery which Bergman has left out of his revised Genesis is the enigma of Noah, the heroic survivor saved to ensure the rebirth of the race despite the Divine longing to blot out all misconstructed creation. The alternative ‘to conspiracy thinking, however, is not any of the modern varieties of "possibility thinking" that rouge the prospect with rainbows as though serious engagement with human problems did not also force upon us the honor of the demonic portrayed so compellingly in Bergman’s films.

Rather than either of these extremities of vision by themselves, it is artistic imaginations that can conceive, bring to birth, more intricately detailed human figures, which can give us what we most need now -- a conviction of our capacity for life that is textured richly enough to disclose our creaturehood as both problem and promise -- simul justus et peccatur. Whether their works are explicitly religious or militantly not so, modern artists can through the fullness of their fictions offer persuasive evidence for the mystery which Christians apprehend through the pattern of a story, a paradoxical action: that falling, even plummeting, we are caught by grace.

Eliot’s Cats Come Out Tonight

Every poet would like, I fancy, to be able to think that he had some direct social utility. . . . to be something of a pop entertainer [T. S. Eliot, “Poetry and Drama,” 1951].



From his Harvard undergraduate days until shortly before his death in 1965, T. S. Eliot exchanged spooling rhymes, bawdy limericks, and “Bolo poems” with Conrad Aiken. The high priest of modern poetry loved vaudeville, the patter of the old music-hall comedians, pop-music clichés, and jingly rhymes of all sorts. During the ‘30s as “Old Possum” -- an avuncular apologist for cats -- he composed and illustrated sly little lyrics about his favorite pets in private letters to his godchildren.

Collected in 1939 as Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, these children’s poems for adults introduce a dozen or more cat personalities who secretly run well-regulated households -- or make a shambles of them, perform vanishing acts and high-wire entrechats, erupt into epiphanic transformations, reminisce about their several former lives, and meditate on their own ineffable names. In a whimsical reading for Decca records, Eliot himself once exploited the theatrical potential of these poems; but they so obviously call for more ambitious musical performance -- given their inventive meters, choric refrains, and many ballad styles -- that it is surprising no one has done it before.

With Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats, the London dance-musical based on Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, Eliot has re-emerged as a popular entertainer commanding huge general audiences of children and adults. Since this immensely successful show opened on Drury Lane last spring, it has become the most highly acclaimed English musical since Jesus Christ Superstar and Evita, Lloyd Webber’s earlier collaborations with Tim Rice. Cats’ nostalgic score draws upon the collective memory of the audience through an impressive range of musical allusions -- to the jazz of the ‘30s, ‘40s and ‘50s as well as to folk, rock, Latin, western, big band, blues and cafe society tunes -- all mounted in a work that sounds like the 1980s. Superbly directed by Trevor Nunn and choreographed by Gillian Lynne, the show has also been praised for the witty and charming performances of Wayne Sleep, Brian Blessed, Paul Nicholas, Elaine Paige and two dozen more in the lively company.

Cats is incessantly dancy and lavish in psychedelic spectacle. Yet almost miraculously, Eliot’s poetic lines (nearly all the lyrics and dialogue) are scarcely ever lost on the big revolving stage at the New London Theatre. This feat has much to do with the company’s remarkably disciplined voice work, but first of all it is a triumph of conception: Cats is not a parasitical version of a minor literary classic, theatricalized to cash in on the latest crazes for cats and for dancin’, but an affectionate and faithful interpretation of Eliot’s work: not only of Practical Cats, but also of unpublished material that his widow, Valerie Fletcher Eliot, generously contributed to this production; and more broadly, of the poet’s religious vision. The mysteries of community and identity; the incursions of the strange into the everyday; rebirth, memory and desire; the luminous potential of lost moments and the ironic awareness that they are over: these familiar themes from the Eliot canon bring some depth to this supremely playful evening in the theater.

Like the Royal Shakespeare Company’s recent adaptation of Nicholas Nickleby, Cats envelops its audience in a mythic world. Designer John Napier’s set establishes a mythic space that looks like everything the cat dragged in, poetically magnified. The partially gutted and reconstructed interior of this modern theater has become a gigantic cats’ playground where ordinary objects look strange on the round stage and against the walls curving around behind the audience. Outsize car tires, trash cans, an electric radio, discarded toothpaste tubes and other barely recognizable refuse from the urban wasteland evoke a setting Eliot knew from his own aloof, catlike wanderings through the red-light districts of Boston, Paris and London. At the same time the nightclub ambience of this blackened theater in the round is just right for the slinky characters and occasional jazz numbers. Animal and human, ragged and sophisticated at once, the set is flavored with a peculiarly Eliotesque irony.

During the overture, the stage takes a turn in one direction, the backdrops in another, and the ceiling strung with lights becomes a cityscape, a starry night sky coming alive as cats’ eyes watching us from their secret places. David Hersey’s lighting begins the metamorphosis of worlds in a musical that draws repeatedly upon archetypes and transformation. On this night of nights, an annual ritual for a “Jellicle” breed of cats (sound affinity with Eliot), we are promised the revelation of their secret lives -- and more, we may glimpse that other world only creatures who “see in the dark” can see:

Jellicle cats come out tonight,

Jellicle cats come one come all:

The Jellicle moon is shining bright

Jellicles come to the Jellicle ball. . . . .   

 

We are quiet enough in the morning hours

We are quiet enough in the afternoon

Reserving our terpsichorean powers

To dance to the light of the Jellicle moon.*

 

Dancing their eccentric stories, the cats disclose foibles and vices we recognize as our own, while some characters also mock the human world we only imagine we control. Choreographer Gillian Lynne has created a very flexible dance style that conveys these double messages and adapts extraordinarily well to the spectrum of musical modes. Avoiding a Walt Disney cuteness, these cats are realistically feline: they arch their backs, parody prancing, dart out their limbs to scarify or trifle with each other, stretch in lazy curves, nose ‘round curiously, stare autistically at the audience. Even so, the animal movements are projected through dancers’ bodies as expressions of human emotions.

John Napier’s allusive costuming, cleverly blending the catlike and the human, also avoids a cartoon-cat look: fluffed-up hair suggests ears; tails are ropy, braided or rolled-up cloth tied round dancers’ waists; shuffled-down leg warmers hint at furry catlegs; and strips of bright cloth, beads, feathers and fur sewn on painted bodystockings make multipatterned coats. We also see a range of human types: the weirdly attired punk youth who parade down King’s Road in Chelsea, springy carnival acrobats, slinky street-walkers, clowns, pirates, music-hall entertainers, a nanny and a portentously furry patriarchal cat, Old Deuteronomy, who lumbers about like a kindly Grandpa Moses.

Cats celebrates the mythical and the ironic from the start with its “Prologue: Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats.” Written by Trevor Nunn and Richard Stilgoe, inspired by an unpublished Eliot draft, this opening number flaunts Jellicle feats in an anything-is-possible world:

Can you ride on a broomstick to places far distant

Familiar with candle, with book, and with bell?

Were you Whittington’s friend? the Pied Piper’s

               assistant?

Have you been an alumnus of Heaven and Hell?

 

Members of the company trade such questions across the stage, then gather their forces for the syncopated chorus that breaks with the verses’ regular prosody, and works into Latin rhythms backed by a big band sound. This increasingly strenuous opening number climaxes in a long rhyming catalogue of attributes:

Practical cats, dramatical cats,

Pragmatical cats, fanatical cats,

Oratorical cats, delphicoracle cats,

Skeptical cats, dispeptical cats. . . .

 

A child’s game of improbably pairing sound-alike words, this is also a distinctively British sort of performance for adults, recalling the verbal acrobatics in Gilbert and Sullivan’s operettas. From the start the company makes us pay attention to the language of Cats: they have us on the edge of our seats listening for the double entendre, the witty word choice, even as we are caught up in the sheer physical joy of the dancing and in the music s suspenseful expansions as it ascends the scale. From its powerful opening, Cats rewards concentration by celebrating with equal intensity the word and the body of the world.



Eliot’s poems challenged Andrew Lloyd Webber to find a musical style for each distinctive character. Eliot’s virtuosity as a musician of words also sets interesting problems for the composer: for example, Eliot’s singsong meters are often broken or opened up by surprises of syncopation, which fit the cats’ leaps and quick-changes of identity but also demand certain musical modes and not others; in addition, he sets his jingles ajar by slant-rhyming -- an effect which requires enough time and breath for the singer to enunciate with perfect clarity. Lloyd Webber’s formal achievement has been to make songs that do not waste these poetic effects in a muddle of verbiage or notes, or undermine them with inappropriate melodies.

For “Macavity the Mystery Cat,” he has built an original score on a basic Henry Mancini style (that of Peter Gunn and The Pink Panther) which is just the right witty mode for this cat’s “deceitfulness and suavity”:

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the

          Hidden Paw --

For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.

He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the

Flying Squad’s despair:

For when they reach the scene of crime  --

          Macavity’s not there!

 

Among others with stories of perfect crimes are the incredibly agile cat-burglar pair, Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer (John Thornton and Bonnie Langford), who have “really a little more reputation than a couple of cats can very well bear.” The music indulges their incurable “gift of the gab” with a more flexible Mancini line that slides out saxophone notes for their knowing asides, stretches out or bounces up in jazzy grace notes to match their antics on stage.

Lloyd Webber and director Trevor Nunn have given Eliot’s Rum Turn Tugger, a contrary cat who is “always on the wrong side of every door,” a post -- Elvis Presley/Mick Jagger style that wins the squeals of his feline fans. “The Tugger” (Paul Nicholas) bursts out on stage, microphone in hand, wagging his thick curly mane and strutting in his tight black leather outfit (trimmed in leopard fur) to punched-out rhythms:

. . . If you offer me pheasant I’d rather have grouse,

If you put me in a house I would: prefer a flat,

If you put me in a flat I’d rather have a house. . . .

 

Remarkably, Eliot’s mechanical meter, with its one-syllable words, anticipates the Presley style so copied in the late ‘60s, and it is perfect for the bump-and-grind Nicholas works into his performance.

Eliot’s mock epic ballad in an older style, “Growl-tiger’s Last Stand,” is a big production number made bigger with a barroom ballad interlude, and all of it is framed by another story. Old Asparagus the Theatre Cat (Stephen Tate), a down-and-out Cockney actor, reminisces about his old roles to a tenderly sympathetic piano and oboe -- especially the time when he “once played Growl-tiger, could do it again. . . .“ In a flash he sheds his tatterdemalion coat to reveal a fearsome wharfside pirate, with a smart bandanna and a rakish patch over “one forbidding eye”:

Growl-tiger was a bravo cat, who travelled on a barge;

In fact he was the roughest cat that ever roamed

          at large.

From Gravesend up to Oxford he pursued his

          evil aims,

Rejoicing in his title of ‘The Terror of the Thames.’

 

Growl-tiger will soon face his Waterloo at the hands of the enemy Siamese cats, but first he and his winsome dance-hall lover, Lady Griddlebone, must sing “their last duet, in danger of their lives.” Here space is made for Eliot’s unpublished “The Ballad of Billy McCaw,” a song in the genre of the working-class sing-along and the sort of thing Eliot had praised in the ‘20s. The wonderful quasi-operatic manner in which Tate renders this song suggests the precariously collected dignity of the performing drunk.

Oh, how well I remember the old Bull and Bush,

Where we used to go down of a Sattaday night  --

. . . A very nice house, from basement to garret

A very nice house, ah, but it was the parrot  --

The parrot, the parrot named Billy M’caw,

That brought all those folk to the bar.

Ah! he was the life of the bar.

Of a Sattaday night, we was all feeling bright,

And Lily La Rose -- the barmaid that was  --

She’d say: ‘Billy! Billy M’Caw!

Came give us come give us a dance on the bar!’

And Billy would dance on the bar

And Billy would dance on the bar...

 

Eliot was a wonderful imitator of voices and popular forms; his barroom song has all the assumed intimacy with subject and audience, and the irrational episodic connections that such songs naturally develop through their affectionately muddled associations. And while our balladeer gets deeper into his muddle, the neglected Lady Griddlebone (Susan Jane Tanner) goes all fluttery in her ostrich feathers and twitchy in the face, to launch the best comic acting of the show. All this is rudely halted by the full-scale attack of the enemy Siamese -- a band of martial-arts cats swirling immense rice-paper fans and colorful scarves to the marching music of piccolos.

If this number presents the most inventive comic acting in Cats, the most dazzling dancing is Wayne Sleep’s minting tricks and fancy body work as Mr. Mistoffelees, the “Original Conjuring Cat.” Near the end of Act II, the audience is well-primed to join in on the choruses, led by The Tugger:

And we all say: Oh!

Well I never

Was there ever

A cat so clever

As magical Mr. Mistoffelees!

 

The magic of collaboration has recreated in the London audience a sense of the community that Eliot sought to evoke in the performance of his verse dramas. The joyous abandon of participation prepares us for the show’s climax -- a scene not in Practical Cats (which has no overall plot) but built out of hints from some previously unused Eliot material about dogs and cats in a hot-air balloon soaring “up up up past the Russell Hotel” to a magical country just beyond the landmarks of the known world. Without using balloons, Cats’ climax fulfills the promise of the Jellicle Ball: the communal acceptance of one elect cat and her ascension to a fantastical feline heaven.

The candidate for this transformation is Eliot’s Grizabella the Glamour Cat (Elaine Paige), who had not appeared in the book (“too sad for children.” explains Mrs. Eliot in the program notes). Nunn has this shady-lady character, who has strong associations with Eliot’s early Prufrock period (1917). limp pathetically through the show in the pitying smoky lamplight that always encircles her, as old neighborhood acquaintances contrast her past and present selves. Since she is the outcast cat with the heaviest “memory,” her highly orchestrated chanteuse number by that title (written by Trevor Nunn) naturally becomes the theme song of the show. The singing style of Elaine Page (who was also the original stage Evita) blends Petula Clark with Barbara Cook: the well-trained but unadorned female voice singing her heart Out. The Grizabella songs, lacking the others’ wit or irony, stand out from the rest, but they are brought in with long musical transitions and provide the pathetic interlude we can expect sooner or later in most musicals.



As a playwright Eliot wrestled with the problem of how to dramatize transcendence on the gravity-bound stage. Lloyd Webber and Nunn meet the challenge of a transcendent Jellicle rebirth with sheer technological bravura. Given the show’s mythic premise, it is finally not too incredible to see Grizabella disappear into a rainbowy empyrean at dizzying heights above the stage, while below a gazing Jellicle choir belts out an “angelicle” crescendo of ascending scales: “Up up up past the Russell Hotel . .” Whatever theological sense or nonsense this revision of the nine lives legend might make, there is a lesson here which recalls Eliot’s vision in The Idea of a Christian Society (1939) of “a society in which the natural end of man -- virtue and well-being in community -- is acknowledged for all, and the supernatural end -- beatitude -- for those who have the eyes to see it.” If only one Jellicle is elected to paradise, all of us are granted a beatific vision of the event.

In a rare American review of this musical, Mel Gussow has scored its “bare minimum of social content” (New York Times, July 26, 1981). The British in wartime 1939 took Practical Cats to heart, just as Eliot repeated the lyrics under his breath whenever he was ill or sleepless. Is Cats then just escapist entertainment, without the “direct social utility” Eliot wanted in the popular arts?

With many ‘20s writers the younger Eliot shared the avant-garde passion for such popular entertainments as vaudeville and juggling acts; but his interest lasted long because it was rooted in his theology of community and in his perception that rhythm -- “the beating of the drum,” he called it  -- is the primitive source of the arts, as of the religious sense. In his poetic dramas, he wanted to restore a rhythmic structure that might awaken people’s craving for ritual and appeal to what he called the “residual” spirituality of his jaded West End audiences. Cats appeals to those latent religious impulses through dance and dramatic ritual, interwoven patterns of words and music, archetypal motifs and other intimations of a deeper order at the heart of things.

Whatever questions might be raised about Eliot’s political and social allegiances, he understood that “social content” can lie more fundamentally in form and style than in topical issues; and, observing that the working man created his own community at the music hall, Eliot argued more generally that social utility might be gained through collaborative art. London audiences these days -- caught in the grip of Britain’s economic troubles, fearful of American militarism in Europe and disturbed by new waves of IRA bombings -- need the energizing imagination of a more benevolent social world. Practical Cats gathers a wacky community of eccentric, even anarchic creatures who know what it means to be vilified, preyed upon and patronized, but whose differences and pains are included in a finally generous vision. In Cats outlaws and outcasts are not just amusing but are caught up in this fundamentally comic rhythm of life.



Of course, other kinds of theater too are needed to help us see clearly what our communities are and what they could be in a better world. During the time I was in London, the Royal Shakespeare Company was staging Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The Love-Girl and the innocent, a powerful play about the Russian camps with the rhythm of a steamroller. At Wyndham’s Theatre the Marxist Dario Fo’s Accidental Death of an Anarchist, a revolutionary commedia dell’arte farce, punctured Italy’s pretense of social justice and called for an abrupt, violent end to all such shabby business. At the Mermaid Theatre, Mark Medoff’s Children of a Lesser God dramatized the awesome silences between the deaf and hearing worlds even when they do try to communicate; at the Piccadilly, Willy Russell’s Educating Rita played out the ironies of a relationship between a hairdresser student and a professor/failed poet in his cups, whose job it is to acculturate her. At the National, Bertolt Brecht’s The Life of Galileo (in its way also a musical) presented the hero’s critical conflict between telling the unsettling truth about the universe and living in community in history. And in Hyde Park, where a quarter-million people turned out in late October for the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament rally, guerrilla theater groups entertained the peacemakers with a dozen versions of the end of the world.

Seeing this spectrum of theatrical performances within a short period put Cats into perspective. Even so, this dance-musical makes an indispensable contribution to our imagination and. communal life. Its theater, after all, is not a brightly lit ballroom on 42nd Street, but a dark space, where cats’ eyes still gleam at us from another world, and where we are invited to witness, on a specially luminous moonlit night, the complete crazy consort dancing together.

The Church’s False Witness Against Jews



Paul M. Van Buren’s offering in The Christian Century’s “How My Mind Has Changed” series (June 17-24, 1981) is eloquent testimony to a new awakening occurring in academic circles. Christian theologians, biblical scholars and church historians are becoming increasingly aware of the necessity to rethink what they do in light of Jewish theology, history and exegesis. Van Buren’s admission that much of Christian theology has been “wrong about Israel, the people of God, and therefore to that extent wrong about the God of Israel” echoes similar assessments by other scholars.

One obvious sign of this new consciousness is the development of courses in Jewish studies at theological schools around the country. At Harvard Divinity School, for example, the appointment of a Jewish Ph.D. to the faculty has added several important courses in Jewish studies to the standard Christian theological curriculum. Krister Stendahl, professor of divinity and former dean there, has stated the importance of such study in the context of Christian theological education:

The Ninth Commandment actually says it all: Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. For our culture in general and for the ministers, pastors and priests in particular, it is important that we do not picture “the other,” the other person’s faith, in a manner that they do not recognize as true. Yet much of religious thinking has been shaped by the thoughtless and even unintentional distortions of other persons’ faith, thoughts, intentions and history [Harvard Divinity Bulletin, November-December 1980].

In Stendahl’s terms, the new awakening is the growing recognition that much of Christianity’s witness, insofar as it says or implies something about Jews and Judaism, has been a violation of the ninth commandment. This false witness is not confined, of course, to theological systems and seminary curricula. After eight years of undergraduate teaching at the University of South Carolina, where most students in my biblical courses are “products” of Christian churches, I am convinced that false witness against our Jewish neighbors is commonplace, even habitual, in the routine life of the church  -- in its study, worship and witness. If this were not so, students entering my classes would not hold so many erroneous ideas about Jews and their religion.

It is commonly believed that Judaism is a bibical religion, the religion of what Christians call the “Old Testament.” Here one fundamental error already has been made, and a second is bound to follow. The first is the failure to recognize that post-biblical developments dramatically transformed the character of Jewish religion. There emerged, roughly contemporaneous with the rise of early Christianity, what is known as rabbinic Judaism. In many significant ways rabbinic Judaism goes beyond or modifies the religion of the Hebrew Scriptures. The Mishnah and the Talmud, not the Bible itself, embody the spirit and the character of rabbinic Judaism. It is from these rabbinic materials, about which most Christians know so little, that Judaism today draws its inspiration and instruction for faith and practice.

The second mistake that usually follows from the the first is that Christians tend to interpret the Old Testament religion from the perspective of the New Testament, which for the most part is presented as a fulfillment of the Old. The religion of the Old Testament, by implication, is inadequate, incomplete or unfulfilled. Consequently, not only do Christians often consult the wrong sources for their understanding of Judaism, but to make matters worse, the sources used are put at a disadvantage by Christian principles of interpretation. Is it any wonder that Judaism is misrepresented by so much of what we say about it?



Given the common misunderstanding of the sources of Judaism, a number of other fallacies usually succeed it. It is believed by many that Judaism at the time of Jesus was stagnant, rigid and spiritually empty. To the extent that this view is represented in our preaching and our teaching, in our liturgy and our curriculum, we are bearing false witness. Any knowledgeable Jew (or non-Jew, for that matter) can readily identify the evidence of spiritual vitality in first century Judaism. There were the sectarian groups, of which the Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes and Zealots were the most prominent. There was temple Judaism and synagogue Judaism, worship by priestly sacrifice and worship by communal prayer. There was Jewish apocalypticism and Jewish gnosticism. There was Hellenistic Judaism and Palestinian Judaism. There were liberals, moderates and conservatives. By any standard, the Judaism of the first century was vibrant, exciting, diversified and spiritually alive. Had this not been the case, the Jewish sect later known as Christianity would not have emerged. Indeed, much of that which is cherished in Christianity today is a by-product of the rich spirituality that gave birth to rabbinic Judaism.

Let me be more specific. It is commonplace to hear Christian sermons that reprove the Pharisees for being self-righteous, sanctimonious, hypocritical and obnoxious. Nothing could be further from the truth, despite the attempts of several New Testament writers to portray them in this way. The Pharisees as a group were quite the opposite. In the words of Jewish historian Ellis Rivkin, they held

a firm and unwavering belief in an alluring Triad: (1) God the just and caring Father so loved each and every individual that (2) he revealed to Israel his twofold Law -- Written and Oral -- which, when internalized and faithfully obeyed, (3) promises to the Law-abiding individual eternal life for his soul and resurrection for his body [A Hidden Revolution (Abingdon, 1978)].

Within this twofold Law, especially the Oral Law, is an understanding of divine grace, mercy and compassion which rivals anything that can be found in Christianity. For the Pharisees, all of this had to be internalized so that it transformed the very character of one’s being. Just as for Jesus and Paul, the ultimate reality was within, not without.

Christian misrepresentation of the Pharisees is not surprising, given what the New Testament says about them. For example, Matthew 23 repeatedly excoriates them for hypocritical actions, and the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector (Luke 18) portrays the Pharisee as conceited and self -righteous. Herein lies much of the problem. The Christian Scriptures -- diligently read, believed and followed by the faithful -- present a one-sided perspective on the rivalry that eventually drove a permanent wedge between Christianity and Judaism.

This rivalry, born of strong convictions on both sides, stirred deep emotions and prompted outbursts of careless rhetoric and unrestrained diatribes. The resulting distortions, as reflected in the New Testament, make us see the worst in Judaism rather than the best. The exaggeration in the portrayal of the Pharisees is especially pronounced because it was Pharisaic and rabbinic Judaism, the mainline Jewish religion after the destruction of the Temple in 70 A.D., that engaged early Christianity in the inter-religious rivalry.



Further, it is often said that Judaism is a religion of law, whereas Christianity is a religion of grace. Again, to the extent that we propagate this view in our preaching and our teaching, we are guilty of bearing false witness. Rabbinic Judaism does not fit our legalistic stereotypes at all.

Consider, for example, this rabbinic exposition of the verse in the Torah which reads, “I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious” (Exod. 33:19):

In that hour God showed Moses all the treasuries of the rewards which are prepared for tie righteous. Moses said, “For whom is this treasury?” And God said, “For him who fulfills the commandments.” “And for whom is that treasury?” “For him who brings up orphans.” And so God told him about each treasury. Finally, Moses spied a big treasury and said, “For whom is that?” And God said, “To him who has nothing I give this treasury,” as it is said, “I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious and I will show mercy on whom I will show mercy” [Exod. R., KI Tassa, XLV 6].

Or consider this rabbinic version of the parable of the prodigal son:

A king had a son who had gone astray from his father a journey of a hundred days; his friends said to him, “Return to your father”; he said, “I cannot.” Then his father sent to say, “Return as far as you can, and I will come to you the rest of the way.” So God says, “Return to me, and I will return to you” [Pes. R. 184b-185 a].

The rabbinic materials leave no doubt that grace is fundamentally important to Judaism. “To an earthly king, a man goes full, and returns empty; to God, he goes empty and returns full” (Pes. R. 185 a).

From the Gospels one gets the impression that Judaism has no heart, no compassion beyond a devotion to the Law. Meticulous observance of the Law, down to each jot and tittle, is more important to the Jew than relationships with human beings, so we are led to believe. Here is an example of what the rabbinic sources say on the subject:

A heathen came to Shammai, and said to him, “Accept me as a proselyte on the condition that you teach me the whole Law while I stand on one foot.” Then Shammai drove him away with the measuring rod he held in his hand. Then he went to Hillel, who received him as a proselyte and said to him, “What is hateful to you do not to your fellow: that is the whole Law; all the rest is its explanation; go and learn” [Sab. 31 a].

This is the Golden Rule, at least in negative form -- espoused by Hillel before the time of Jesus. The school of Hillel, the liberal wing of Pharisaism, was the dominant influence in rabbinic Judaism; therefore, the importance of relationships and deeds of lovingkindness is repeatedly emphasized in the rabbinic sources.

Thus we can see that the common Christian perception of Judaism is distorted as well as inaccurate. We have been guilty of bearing false witness against our Jewish neighbors. What is needed to correct our image is a massive effort to re-examine what we say about Jews and Judaism in sermons, lessons, liturgy and life. The ninth commandment offers a special challenge as we make this effort.



Anyone familiar with church history should feel the urgency of this challenge. From New Testament times to the present, it is difficult to find a single period when the church has not acted shamefully toward the Jews. I’m convinced that anti-Semitism has been such a powerful and persistent nemesis largely because of the church’s false witness against the Jews.

The negative concept of Jews and Judaism begun in the New Testament, and developed further in the writings of the church fathers, created an entire adversos Judaeos tradition. The titles of the tracts by themselves often indicate the nature of the writings: An Answer to the Jews (Tertullian), Expository Treatise Against the Jews (Hippolytus), Three Books of Testimonies Against the Jews (Cyprian), Eight Orations Against the Jews (John Chrysostom), Tract Against the Jews (Augustine), and many more.

The sermons of the great orator John Chrysostom offer perhaps the most offensive examples of these patristic diatribes. A single passage from his preaching is all that is needed to make the point:

I know that many people hold a high regard for the Jews and consider their way of life worthy of respect at the present time. This is why I am hurrying to pull up this fatal notion by the roots. . . . A place where a whore stands on display is a whorehouse. What is more, the synagogue is not only a whorehouse and a theater; it is also a den of thieves and a haunt of wild animals . . . not a cave of wild animal merely, but of an unclean wild animal. .. The Jews have no conception of [spiritual] things at all, but living for the lower nature, all agog for the here and now, no better disposed than pigs or goats, they live by the rule of debauchery and inordinate gluttony. Only one thing they understand: to gorge themselves and to get drunk [Eight Orations Against the Jews 1, 3, 4].

The widespread polemics against the Jews in the theological foundations of early Christianity led to serious social consequences for the Jews during the Middle Ages. In an excellent study of the problem, Rosemary Radford Ruether argues that “the negative myth of the Jew, developed in the patristic adversos Judaeos tradition, was incorporated into the legal status of the Jew in Christendom” (Faith and Fratricide [Seabury, 1974]). This myth led to a loss of civil rights, to ghettoization, punishment by Inquisition and public executions, expulsion from countries like England, Spain and Portugal, brutal attacks by the Crusaders, pogroms and so on. The medieval treatment of the Jews, buttressed by continuing theological justification, is the legacy that we have inherited in the modern period.

Consider another description of the treatment of Jews and Judaism in the Middle Ages. Jewish author Samuel Sandmel writes:

Judaism was normally described not as a religion but as either a superstition or a vomit. Jews were barred from the ordinary personal liberties. They were in due course forced to wear “the Jewish badge.” They were alleged to use for the Passover Seder not wine but the blood of Christian children whom they kidnapped and killed for that purpose. They were alleged to sneak into churches and stab the holy wafer (“the host”), from which flowed the “real blood” of Jesus. In the Black Plague they were accused of poisoning the wells of the Christians. It was declared that they could be distinguished by their own “Jewish” smell. The Jews of the Rhineland were massacred in the First Crusade in 1906, for the Crusaders saw no reason to wait until they reached the Holy Land to show their might to the infidels. The art and folk tales of the age before the invention of printing paved the way for later printed art and picture books showing villainous Jews doing dreadful things to Christians. The Jewish rabbinic writings were recurrently either censored or confiscated and burned [Anti-Semitism in the New Testament? (Fortress, 1978)].

To anyone who knows this tragic history, it comes as no great surprise that the Holocaust could and did take place in the heart of Christendom. The Nazis’ “final solution” cannot be divorced from the attempts to get rid of the Jews throughout church history -- first by forced conversion, then by expulsion, then by extermination.

If all of us knew this tragic history better, I’m convinced that we would feel the urgency to cease our false witness against Jews and Judaism.



How do we begin to correct the problem? For starters, we need to observe the ninth commandment. What we say about our neighbors, including their religion, should be that which they can recognize as true. We should consult the sources from which they draw their own religious understanding, or, if this cannot be done, we need to read informed authorities on those sources.

But more than that is required. The dismantling of erroneous views and the construction of new ones take time and effort. Indeed, for many it is a never-ending task. Let me suggest how this reconceptualization might take place.

Obviously, the pastor is the key person in any congregation. He or she has the opportunity to correct misconceptions or reinforce appropriate conceptions, whichever the case may be. Here are some things that can be done:

1. Scriptural texts read for public worship should be studied carefully with these questions in mind: How are Jews and Judaism portrayed in these texts? Is this portrayal accurate or is it a distortion? Where distortions are found, the sermon should include information to project a more accurate picture of matters. In lectionary readings for the Lenten season, for example, the responsibility for the crucifixion is often shifted from the Romans to the Jews. The pastor can readily explain the shift, and the resulting historical distortions, by making reference to the apologetic motives that prompted the New Testament writers to avoid statements that would have aroused Roman antagonism against the early Christians.

2. Prayers, litanies and other elements of worship should avoid the thoughtless rhetoric that can subconsciously prejudice people. An order of worship for Good Friday evening in my own United Methodist tradition, for example, includes a prayer of intercession which states:

O merciful God, who has made all men, and hatest nothing that thou has made, and willest not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should be converted and live: Have mercy upon all who do not know thee, or who deny the faith of Christ crucified. Take thou from them all ignorance, hardness of heart, and contempt of thy Word; and so bring them home, blessed Lord, to thy fold, that we may be made one flock under one shepherd. Jesus Christ our Lord.

It seems to me that such a prayer, uttered by Christian worshipers on Good Friday evening, is bound to suggest that those “who deny the faith of Christ crucified” are none other than “the Jews.” The language used to characterize those who “should be converted” -- their “ignorance, hardness of heart, and contempt of thy Word” -- echoes the negative descriptions of Jews in Scripture and the adversos Judaeos tradition. The prejudicial implications of such language can be avoided if the worshiper is led to claim the identity of the sinner.

3. Church school teachers should be sensitized to the problem through workshops and courses of study. We cannot assume that lay teachers will become aware of the anti-Judaism in the Christian tradition unless they are confronted with the wrongness of our stereotypes. A study course in Judaism, preferably taught by a rabbi, would be enormously valuable.

4. Literature and audiovisual aids used in the church school should be carefully selected. Occasionally, even in the literature of the mainline denominations, one will find culpable statements. Even so, use of approved denominational curriculum materials would substantially reduce the problem.

5. Most mainline denominations have adopted official statements with respect to anti-Semitism and other forms of prejudice. These should be presented to our congregants -- preferably studied by them -- at least once a year.

In essence, I am inviting pastors and congregations to join in the new awakening which is already occurring in many circles. Lest the obvious be overlooked, let me add that wherever possible Christian-Jewish dialogue groups, for both laity and clergy, should be established. We must cease our false witness for the sake of the church’s integrity and in fairness to our Jewish neighbors.

An Ethic of Eating and Drinking

Jesus said not to take much thought about what you eat or drink, and in the United States obedience to this text is running high. What Jesus had in mind was that there are many concerns more important than eating or drinking: the realm of redemption, for one thing. That realm -- the “Kingdom of God” -- is a place of growth in grace, realized love and care of the poor and weak. In other words, it is a place where transcendent values are played out and where life conquers death. Surely, then, he would not have us ignore the ways in which our eating and drinking deter the spread of this realm in our personal and corporate lives.

A minimal ethic of bodily consumption might embrace the concept of reverence for life -- Albert Schweitzer’s maxim that only when faced with the utmost necessity is one justified in taking the life of another creature or, for that matter, inflicting any manner of cruelty. Any ethic of food and drink springs, then, from the essential unity and sacredness of the whole creation.

From this starting point, I arrive at six themes or perspectives that seem germane to an ethic of food and drink.

1. The rights of animals. After World War II, when Americans did relatively well dietarily on the produce of victory gardens, there was a media campaign to convince us that large amounts of protein are necessary to our health. The ad campaign led to literal and figurative overkill. And now to accommodate our taste for meat, we have introduced sophisticated forms of factory farming that effectively deny the animal any reason for existence other than to be killed and consumed.

Begging the question of whether an animal has a right to life in the face of a “necessity” that is neither economically nor medically established, it can most surely be argued that if an animal’s destiny is to be slaughtered, this should be carried out with some respect for the creature. I find it hard to come to some intermediate standard between freedom and slaughter that would represent an acceptable form of treatment. Rather, I suspect that the practical application of an ethic of food and drink will have to present the public with an ever more graphic picture of what is being done and rely on the inherent wisdom of human beings eventually to make some humanitarian decisions.

This is not the place for such documentation, but it might well begin with examples of the treatment of young calves that are fed in such a way as to make them anemic so that their veal will be white -- or the debeaking of chickens to keep them from killing each other in the close quarters to which they are so cruelly confined.

Animals do have rights. To define these rights, and to see them as related to the well-being of our global ecosystem, is one aspect of an ethic of food and drink.

2. The systemic impact of unexamined consumer behavior. Our entire system of food and drink is, to a large extent, the product of unexamined consumer behavior -- unexamined by the consumer, that is. For massive amounts are invested by corporations in the manipulation of consent to such propositions as the following:

• It is possible to eat substantial amounts of carbohydrates without losing one’s trim physique or athletic ability. This is the implication of myriad television, billboard and magazine advertisements.

• It is desirable to eat meat as often as one likes. Nothing is said of the uneconomic cycle that is involved in translating whole grains into beef and then into cuts for the table.

• Sexual attractiveness can be linked to the consumption of various foods and beverages.

These propositions underlie a huge multibillion-dollar corporate monolith that might use its power to educate the public on health matters were it not for the fact that the present system has not begun to crack. When enough people refuse to eat or drink what is generally offered, profit will presumably follow good sense.

The intake of refined sugars is probably the most egregious example of unexamined consumer behavior, and its systemic impact is revealed in innumerable health statistics -- from dental to coronary -- suggesting that if there is one thing we do not need more of, it is sugar.

We have, of course, in the ongoing Nestlé campaign, a well-documented example of how corporate practices can wreak havoc by dumping products into markets where their use virtually guarantees not nutrition but its opposite: failing health.

The only antidote to unexamined consumer behavior is a campaign of scientific and humane forces to inform both the corporate perpetrators of palpable falsehood and the equally responsible consumers that self-interest in the form of happiness and longevity, not to mention social justice, lies in considering an ethic of food and drink.

3. The tangible benefits of a mindful diet. The foundations of a mindful diet can be stated with some assurance. They are a radical reduction of the use of sugar, the elimination of coffee and other stimulants, the forswearing or minimal use of alcoholic beverages, the substitution of organically grown vegetables for chemically fertilized ones and the derivation of proteins from beans, whole grains, and, in moderation, eggs and cheese. This is a “new age” diet in the sense that it is difficult to maintain in today’s society without somewhat more attention than might seem appropriate to the busy person. You can’t eat this way at a fast-food place or buy this way at every supermarket. You must pay rather high prices at health-food and fresh produce stores (though the prices are lower at co-ops).

Why the wisdom of this course is not more clear is difficult to fathom when one considers that we are speaking, in general, of the sort of diet typically recommended to the victims of heart attacks.

4. The need to examine the impact of institutional diet practices. We are on the threshold, I believe, of scientific confirmation of the relationship between diet and the breakdown of mental health; there are studies that link propensities to violence with food and drink intake. I have not touched heavily on alcohol abuse because it is widely known that it breeds all manner of sad responses.

My “long winter of 1982” was spent, in large part, visiting my 77-year-old father in the hospital where he had brain surgery for an aneurism. The diet he was fed consisted of overdone beef, canned string beans and sugary desserts -- surely not the appropriate input for a person needing to build up a body.

In Anatomy of an Illness Norman Cousins has recorded the story of a patient’s struggle to become a part of the healing process by assuming control over phases of diet and medication normally the province of the physician alone. We need more studies that deal with the effect of institutional diet on the health of the people “served.” A friend who works in inner-city schools is convinced that student violence can be directly correlated with carbohydrate and sugar intake.

5. The microcosm/macrocosm effect. The idea that persons are microcosms of the world is hardly new. It is becoming obvious in our time that we cannot talk about peace on a global scale without recognizing the need for peace on the home front, in the self, in relationship, in community. I do not look with scorn on the person who feels that his or her meditations and prayers can have a positive effect on the world as a whole.

My ethics mentor in seminary, John Bennett, made an indelible impression on me when he offhandedly remarked that many liberals seem incapable of relating affectionately to the persons most close at hand. I am convinced that this correlation between the individual and society requires some attention to the ethics of food and drink.

6. A mode of ecumenism. During the 1970s a new school of theology sprang up outside the camp of institutional religion. It is the theology of the new age, and its literary gurus are numerous: Ken Wilber, Michael Murphy, David Spangler, William Irwin Thompson and others. Essentially this school of thought deals in the broadest sense with issues of unity and dynamism -- the action of the Spirit -- and with the possibilities of human transformation or potential.

As a new social movement rises up around the issue of global survival, it seems essential to explore the distinctive relationship between the Good News of a realm of redemption which is at once personal and cosmic, and the holistic work that is being done in fields as diverse as consciousness studies, physics and diet. It is time to call a truce between those who have defended a purely individual approach and those who have seen things in terms of a class or systemic analysis.

It is not too much to hope that around the seemingly small issue of nutritional ethics this form of ecumenism will be encouraged.



The biblical argument for the approach developed here is that Jesus was heralding a new age of human responsibility for personal and world development. In this declension, faith is viewed less as belief than as the energy or perspective needed to allow good to become manifest in the world. Faith is the power to tap into the sacred reality of God’s tangible presence and dynamism.

The case for an ethic of food and drink may be summarized thus: It seems doubtful that faith mandates a system of life that appears to require inhumane slaughter of creatures, uneconomical and exploitative uses of land, disregard of personal health, and ignorance of the probability that the key to world peace lies in the conscious cultivation of a practical philosophy of reverence for all that lives.

Survivor of the First Degree



I have counted seven separate phases in my personal survivorship of the Holocaust. Some of them overlap. Others have left vestiges throughout several or all of the subsequent phases. Only during the last two have I been made conscious of the fact that a Holocaust survivor is a distinctive kind of person, not just one who underwent a special experience, but almost a person sui generis -- because the Holocaust itself was sui generis.

The phases are: (1) catharsis; (2) self-deceit; (3) enjoying the limelight and sobering up; (4) a time of denied traumas; (5) becoming a resource person; (6) functioning as a “survivor-in-residence”; and (7) the postsurvivor era.

First, catharsis. When I returned to Holland after the war, I strongly felt the need to tell of the enormities I had witnessed as a concentration camp inmate, and I was certainly no exception in that respect. Eyewitness reports filled the newspaper columns and radio programs. Within a few months, returnees had committed their stories to writing, and pamphlets describing the atrocities appeared by the dozens. People were eager to learn from authentic sources the gruesome details of what had been unconfirmed rumors during the war years.

On the other hand, we liberated prisoners needed an audience. Seeing our listeners shudder at the abominations we reported, knowing that they believed us (for the Dutch had learned from their own experience to expect the worst from Teutonic fury), the very triumph of being alive to tell the story -- all these brought some comfort to our shattered egos. This phase of sensationalism was understandably short. The public was soon fed up: they had heard it all. We, too, grew weary of repeating our tale -- but we had not told all of it, not nearly all.

Second, self-deceit. As the pitiable postliberation euphoria faded and we regained some strength, our lives were totally filled with picking up the pieces, the implications of starting life ab ova were not all that different for returnees from the camps than for others who had outlasted the war. Their normal lives, too, had been interrupted (albeit not so radically as ours); they, too, had suffered (albeit not as much as we); they too had lost dear ones (albeit not as many as we). Numbers of burghers who had never left Amsterdam had sustained greater material loss than we. The differences between us seemed to be a matter of degree, not of kind. The common task of reconstruction and rehabilitation became an equalizer. We had to go on living, and that process required the whole person.

But the past had not loosened its grip. It was there in our dreams: sometimes veiled, sometimes making us start and scream. Nor did it leave us in our waking hours. Every activity - -- eating, walking, talking, working -- took place not so much in its given context but rather as a variant of the way things had been in the camp. It was as though camp life continued to be the norm, the freedom variants seemed to lack reality; they were like performances that could be called off at any time.

Yet we thought that we could wean ourselves from the dependency on the camp experience by an act of will and adjustment. An attitude of concentrating on the task at hand and looking ahead to the future, we thought, was bound to produce an inner liberation from the Holocaust and bring about our physical and mental recovery. This period of self-deceit began while we were still in Europe, waiting for our visa. When we emigrated to the United States and started to rebuild our lives from scratch for the third time, the illusion was extended by another few years.

Third, enjoying the limelight and sobering up. By the time a seemingly normal atmosphere of living and working had been achieved, our middle-American neighbors discovered that we had actually experienced the Nazi horror about which they had only heard and read and seen pictures. My wife and I began to receive social invitations, ones of genuine American hospitality to make the stranger welcome, but we were the center of interest. We willingly answered questions about life and death in the concentration camps, but the situation was entirely different from that of the first phase. What had been a catharsis, a compulsion to pour out all that obsessed us, now was a catering to other people who were both curious and sympathetic. Newspaper interviews and lectures with question-and-answer periods for civic organizations and church groups soon followed. We were in the spotlight and it warmed us.

During this period, for the first time we began to hear the question: “How can you bear to talk about the terrible things that happened to you?” There were other escapees from Nazi persecution who steadfastly refused to speak of their experiences, and this difference in attitudes was troublesome to my wife and me. Had they suffered more than we? Were they by nature more reserved? Was their silence the “normal” or the healthier response, compared to our readiness to communicate? Whatever the answer, we considered it our duty, as eyewitnesses, to let the world know about Nazi inhumanity and the sufferings of the Jewish people.

Two further observations about that period should be mentioned. One is that our invitations to speak about our experiences came almost exclusively from Christian groups; Jews were considerably more guarded -- almost as though they did not want to know. The second observation is that the public appearances were not repeated when we moved after a few years to another middle-American town. As before, we were generously greeted and welcomed as newcomers to the community, but beyond that we were not awarded any special attention and were not encouraged to. talk about past events. In fact, on occasion we had the impression that we were distrusted because of them. I will not attempt to analyze these different manifestations, one of commanding the limelight and the other of being yesterday’s celebrity, during this phase of my survivorship; people and locales differ, and accident and coincidence are determining forces in life.



Fourth, a time of denied traumas. About ten years after the liberation -- our lives having run for some time on a pretty even keel -- I began to experience a variety of physical disabilities as well as mental/emotional afflictions; sometimes the two were difficult to distinguish. A long period of medical treatment ensued, during which some symptoms disappeared, others remained or worsened, and new ones developed. Slowly I came to suspect that I was suffering from the delayed effects of persecution. Quite aside from hard-to-measure traumas such as the drawn-out anticipation of an impending catastrophe, the incarceration itself, the dehumanization, the sustained fear of death, I could point to some very tangible assaults upon my health in the concentration camp. Among them were prolonged starvation and exposure; being worked beyond my endurance and strength; every cut and bruise turning into festering wounds accompanied by high fever; diphtheria, dysentery, hepatitis, and a bout with typhus that very nearly killed me.

I had entered the fourth phase of survivorship, which was characterized perhaps less by the health problems themselves than by the fact that my maladies were not properly ascribed to a post-concentration-camp syndrome. Many years and five or six physicians later, I was actually worse off than at the beginning of that period.

Today I realize that physicians, including those who had themselves been in the camps, were at first totally baffled by the medical consequences of the Holocaust. I also recognize that my expectations of the medical profession were unreasonable. At that time, however, my “failure to respond to treatment” (a phrase which, to me, had an accusatory connotation) was added to the afflictions for which I had sought treatment, and I was devastated. Later on, the special medical situation of survivors was recognized, new therapies were devised, and some physicians even specialized in the phenomenon.

But for me this development occurred too late; I was unwilling to risk yet another disappointment. Slowly I learned to live and function with an unexorcizable piece of the Holocaust within me. My formula for living with that burden was: utilize as much of one’s strength as necessary to keep the inner turmoil subdued and to put up an appearance; the remaining energy will, in most situations, suffice to meet the demands of life. Possibly such a philosophy is in itself a symptom of the postcamp syndrome.

Fifth, becoming a resource person. Two decades had passed by then, and a whole new generation had grown up, some of its members without even any secondhand knowledge about the Holocaust. However, people were still curious enough to ask questions when they met someone who had actually been in a concentration camp. My wife and I experienced such curiosity, for example, when we took vacation group tours. An inescapable chain of events would have us telling about our Holocaust experience even though we no longer wanted to be distinguished by our past suffering and would have preferred to be recognized for whatever we had achieved in spite of it.

Our German accents invariably prompted questions of whether we were “originally from Germany” and how long had we been in the U.S. In answer we felt compelled immediately to volunteer the information that we had been victims of Nazism, in order to dispel any suspicion that we might have been Nazis ourselves. In addition, we had to forestall any spontaneous expression of sympathy with the Nazis by someone in the group, which would have been most embarrassing. I think that it was on such occasions when keeping alive the memory of the Nazi horror began to mean more than the duty of the witness to testify, turning into something of a sacred mission. For then we observed that the horror was in a process of retreating to the back of people’s consciousness, of becoming sanitized, of being adapted to fit schoolbooks. Further, at this stage the people who wanted to hear the facts directly from an eyewitness appeared oblivious of the pain their questions might cause.

There were other settings for our being cast, against our will, in the role of resource persons. In our social circle, where the Holocaust had not normally been a topic of conversation, we frequently began to be asked about our experience. At my college, both students and faculty seemed to have rediscovered the Holocaust, together with the fact that I had been caught up in it. This growing desire to be reminded could well have sprung from a sense of danger inherent in losing the feel for the immediacy of the catastrophe.

 



Sixth, functioning as “survivor-in-residence.” Slowly, and at first unrecognized, my eyewitness reporting on the Holocaust became formalized. Where I had originally answered questions and occasionally volunteered a memory, I was now asked to lead discussions or address groups. The change in my status was brought about largely by the institutionalizing of the Holocaust, both as a field of academic study and as a fixed day of mourning in the Jewish religious calendar: Yom Hashoah, Day of the Holocaust. It seemed natural that I should be the one to deliver the address on that day, year after year. This was extremely difficult for me, but I would not have had it otherwise.

In the inscrutable ways of language it often occurs that a concept which has not yet sufficiently crystallized acquires a name, and then the name, in turn, obviates continued clarification of the concept. This had happened with the word “Holocaust,” and the process was being repeated with the term “survivor.” In both cases existing language was applied to a specific, recent phenomenon, after which closer definition could be left to future scrutiny. We need to ask: Who exactly is a “survivor” of the “Holocaust”? Only a person who had been one of the skeletons, still breathing when the concentration camps were liberated? Are Jews who lived in hiding during the Nazi years “survivors”? Do, perhaps, all European Jews whom Hitler did not have time to seize constitute “survivors”? What about the Jews who had emigrated? And finally, don’t American Jews -- in fact, world Jewry, whom Hitler surely would have destroyed, had the outcome of the war been different -- also fall into the “survivor” category?

Obviously, there exists a hierarchy of survivors. No corresponding terminology has as yet entered the language, but my conceptualization of such a hierarchy is based on the terminology of the Nazis’ “Nuremberg Laws.” They distinguished between Mischlinge (bastards) “of the first, second, and third degree,” depending on the number of each individual’s Jewish and “Aryan” grandparents (with a few other criteria thrown in). By this analogy I am a “survivor of the first degree,” and therefore, the principle of noblesse oblige applies to me.

Within my general “mission” to keep alive the memory of the Holocaust, I began to see as my special task to preserve its reality in my academic environment --  a resolve strengthened by my observation that each new entering class knew less about it. This fact was true of Christian and Jewish students alike. Another reason was the metamorphosis of the Holocaust event into an academic subject, which I followed with uneasiness and distrust. The advent of this phase was marked, for example, by invitations to symposia on the Holocaust “to represent the viewpoint of the survivor.” Then I became what the ‘‘native informant” or ‘‘consultant” is to the linguist: someone born into a given language, uneducated about its structure, history and workings yet useful to the expert for providing raw data.

I feared that the Holocaust would be theorized and depersonalized; perhaps most of all I feared its incorporation as one more instance in the long series of catastrophes in Jewish history, from the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem to the pogroms in Russia. And this “historicization” was occurring while there were still living people able to provide the sense of immediacy that is missing from historical abstraction. I could not help resenting this development, because to my thinking the Holocaust is a phenomenon that must not be incorporated into -- or even classified together with -- anything else.

Another reason for my “mission” centers on the question which has now become a cliché: Can something like the Holocaust ever happen again? Whether one likes it or not (and I do not), the idea of “doing all in one’s power to prevent a recurrence” (another cliché) is, in one form or another, the most frequently cited reason for survivors to tell their tale. I admit to having used it myself occasionally: to give my endeavor a respectable educational appearance, or to frighten my audience into participation. But do I really believe that such an educational effort is effective? Can I conceive that my story, or even those of a few thousand people like me, could prevent another Holocaust?

The answer has to be No, if certain conditions all came together again: (1) an economic and political situation as desperate as it was in Hitler’s Germany; (2) the rise of a new evil genius with Hitler’s demagogic powers; (3) virulent and all-pervading anti-Semitism; (4) repeated use of the “Big Lie” with mastery; and (5) an entire nation’s being stricken by megalomania and arrogance, by the curse of pseudoscience, and by the deadly combination of sentimentality and cruelty. Then humankind could stumble into another Holocaust, no matter how convincingly the horrors of the last are retold.

And yet I continued to feel the obligation of speaking out, of sharing my personal knowledge, of not permitting my listeners to forget. It is quite possible that my motive is irrational, going back to the time when we thought that no Jew would be left alive to tell the story. And I face an unresolved dilemma: the intimation that I might have been spared in order to tell the story collides with the question, “Why me?” I feel I should not be obliged to do anything special in exchange for the fact that I had not perished like the others, since that would only bring into sharp focus the question, “Why them?”

Out of this dilemma grew a rather weak rationalization. I like to think that living means having a task, and by surviving the Holocaust I was provided with both life and a task. However, in a way I admire and envy those survivors who do not speak out. Their silence demonstrates that the unspeakable has remained unspeakable, while my discourses might make it appear as though the unfathomable enormity could be reduced to finite proportions.

In the course of time my role as a survivor became well structured. The field of “survivorship” became something of a specialty in addition to my official academic discipline. Indeed I began to publish memoirs and essays dealing with the Holocaust. At all times, though, I remained conscious of the fact that I was not a ‘‘Holocaust scholar,’’ and I began, with honest self-irony, to refer to myself as the “survivor-in-residence.” Strangely, this seldom evoked mirth.



Seventh, the postsurvivor era. In reassessing my status I have come, not at all surprisingly, to the conclusion that whatever real or imagined function I was fulfilling as a survivor has run its course, and that indeed the era of the survivor is drawing to a close. I can discern six reasons.

1. The Holocaust, whether or not sui generis, was a single event. How long after any historic catastrophe, Jewish or general, have its survivors been around to tell their story and claim special status? In each case the day came when nobody wanted to listen to them anymore, and another day came when the last of them had vanished. In this respect, the Holocaust is not different from other catastrophes.

2. Ever since the end of World War II, one frightful event has followed another. Economic, sociological, military, technical and natural catastrophes are the order of the day. The earth’s resources are being exhausted or despoiled; old-time morality has become a laughing matter and crime rules the streets; people lose sleep worrying about their jobs, their life’s savings, their marriage, their children. The fear of a nuclear war is an ever-present reality. Further, everybody is fully occupied with living his or her own day-to-day life. Is it fair of me to expect that people sustain a genuine interest in the Holocaust, which happened long ago?

3. When witnesses to an event have given their testimony and been cross-examined -- even repeatedly and in all courts of appeal -- their role as witnesses is played out. They disappear in the milling crowd, and their part in the event is over.

4. The academic discipline of Holocaust studies has progressed well beyond the stage of collecting eyewitness reports, long since entering the phase of analysis, abstraction and the drawing of conclusions. To that community of scholars a still-living survivor has become supernumerary. Any further repetitions, variations, illustrations only delay the classifying, indexing and evaluating of phenomena whose outward circumstances and effects on the victim have been stated ad nauseam.

5. In general, a continuance of the survivor era is not a question so much of how the public views the survivor as of how the survivor sees his or her own role in relation to the public. There are people to whom the word “Holocaust” mainly signifies a certain genre of TV shows, movies or reading matter, featuring violence and horror. In relation to them, survivors must feel that their experience scarcely carries any meaning.

There are others, especially young people, who see in the Holocaust a massive failure of humankind, causing in them feelings of sadness, anger or guilt. Badly shaken, they comprehend that there can be no true understanding nor a guarantee of nonrepetition, and they keep wrestling for meaning. They need to know how it really was, and I am one who can tell them. A survivor’s response to these people will depend on his or her own sensitivities. My feeling is that I must be gentle with them, for they, too, are in a sense victims, but I cannot tell them the truth and spare them at the same time. It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to be a living reminder to them, since that entails burdening their consciences with my disturbing knowledge.

6. I must conclude that the era of the survivor has come to an end when the few thousands of us who are still around and still aching must observe that it has been possible for a vicious revisionist movement to spring up, which denies that there ever was a Holocaust. It produces a literature and finds followers and, despite such nonsuspect witnesses as the liberating armies, can openly fling the obscenity of “The Great Hoax” in a survivor’s face.

The “vision” I once had in Bergen-Belsen that decades our monstrous experience would have become one of many historical episodes has already turned out to be trite -- and it could not have been otherwise. There is a time for everything, but only its own time. Certainly the Holocaust will not be forgotten. People will continue to be dumbfounded as to how it could have happened, and the fate of the victims will continue to haunt humankind.

And the surviving survivors -- what should they do? The Hebrew poet Hayim Nahman Bialik suggested an answer after Kishinev, the pogrom of 1903 in which 49 Jews were slain:

And you, man what are you still doing here?

Up and flee to the wilderness!

Carry with you there the cup of grief,

Tear there your soul into little shreds.

And feed your heart to your impotent wrath.

There shed your big tears on the naked rock,

Let out your bitter roar,

It soon will be lost in the storm.

Why I Did Not Leave Nazi Germany in Time



The life of a Jew of my generation and background is most fittingly divided into a pre-, during- and post-Holocaust existence. Any other periodizing, such as peacetime/wartime/new beginning, or childhood/youth/adulthood, becomes insignificant measured by the criterion of the Holocaust.

Already the third, the post-Holocaust, phase has for someone of my age lasted longer than the first two put together. And seeing the changes wrought by the passage of time -- changes not of facts but of our perception and evaluation of facts -- I find myself idealizing my pre-Holocaust period, and I notice that the acute awareness of my suffering during the Holocaust is losing some of its sting. I do not know which of these two changes is the greater distortion of facts and of truth.

The post-Holocaust period, in turn, is clearly subdivided into separate phases. First there was the immense effort to start life anew, even to want to live after the great death. Only when that was settled, so it seems to me, were we ready for the shudder of disbelief, the onslaught of horror. There followed the crisis of faith -- “God after Auschwitz” -- and then the apportioning of guilt: guilt of the bystanders, Christian and Jewish; guilt of the perpetrators, their people and their progeny; and also the guilt of the victims.

Comparatively late there began the phase of investigation: How could it have happened? And its counterpart: How can a recurrence be prevented? Almost simultaneously with this phase the first signs of a potential recurrence became manifest: the slumping economy, the social and moral turmoil, the preponderance of violence and cruelty in much of the world, the rise of neo-Nazism.

To recognize this potential recurrence it is not necessary to see uniformed stormtroopers in the streets; it is not necessary to acquaint oneself with the republication of old hate literature, with the brand-new growing literature and the publicity given to the “Great Hoax” theme. It is enough to witness the ignorance about and lack of interest in the Holocaust, its relegation to academic research, to monument-building, to the archives and even to entertainment. Naturally, my impartial mind tells me that it is normal, certainly inevitable, and probably even good that these events are losing their immediacy and receding somewhat into the distance. This enables them to be seen in “their proper perspective” -- to be shelved, so to speak, alongside the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the Crusades and the Inquisition; or, for that matter, alongside any manifestations of inhumanity on a large scale in which people other than Jews were sufferers.



But I observe that with regard to the Holocaust my mind can be impartial only at rare moments, while my emotional response has become rather more impassioned as time passes. For me the prevailing composure will easily appear as indifference, callousness and the wish not to be bothered on a personal level. More than by anything else, the present attitude is brought home to me by certain questions I am sometimes asked -- and it makes no difference whether the questioners’ interest is genuine, feigned or just polite. Here are three questions of the kind:

Why did you allow yourself to be led to the slaughter like sheep?

Did you ever contemplate escaping from the concentration camp?

How come you did not leave Germany when there was still time?

The most painful aspect of these questions is that I am expected to answer them. Even when they are asked without malice or reproach, the questioner still expects a deliberate, logical explanation, supported if possible by a few convincing and easily remembered arguments.

Why is it so difficult for me to retain my calm in the face of these questions? Why do I react to them with exasperation? Why do they make me angry and unhappy? Is it simply because I know for a fact that they can be asked only with historic hindsight? For at the time resistance and rebellion and heroism of the bold and daring kind were simply not among the existing options, and emigrating was a trauma, not a simple matter of packing up and going.

I think that of the two reactions -- anger and unhappiness -- unhappiness comes first. I am speaking of myself, of course, but I have reason to believe that others in my position harbor similar feelings. I am unhappy first because I am seized by a feeling of inadequacy and helplessness when I strain and concentrate to find answers; second, because I despair of my ability to formulate that which I fleetingly and vaguely view during intensive introspection; and third, because I know that I lack the power or whatever else it takes to convince my questioner. Finally, I am unhappy because I am practically certain that the entire process of trying to answer these questions is an exercise in futility; the questioner is not really that interested, and he or she is right, because there are now many more important questions.

It is my unhappiness about this inadequacy, ineffectiveness, powerlessness and sense of futility -- which seem to be built into the problem -- that causes my anger. And that anger is intensified by my realization that despite all reasoning to the contrary, I cannot but perceive these questions as an assault upon my person. Instead of remaining a natural mechanism for soliciting information, which they are, they assume the shape of an interrogation in which the questioner is also the tormentor.

For when all is said and done, are we Jews not being judged guilty of lack of foresight, of gullibility, of inertia, of cowardice, of irresponsibility, of a defeatism by which guilt is transferred to an army of anonymous bystanders who may include the questioner? The surviving victims are put into the grotesque situation of having to explain what others did to them, and of meeting with incomprehension should they refuse, or declare themselves unable, to answer. The surviving perpetrators are not approached; one would not expect a true answer from them. The situation is somehow reminiscent of the law enacted immediately after the Crystal Night requiring the Jews to pay for the damage done to their businesses and homes.



And yet, the victim-survivor is the only reliable “expert” and eyewitness to whom to turn and, by the very fact of having survived, is also morally obligated to provide information. So why should we be coy about answering a few straight questions? Therefore, I feel I must overcome my resistance and resentment, must dismiss the feeling of engaging in an unwilling exercise in apologetics, and try earnestly, if not to supply straight and simple answers, at least to clarify and line up some of the evasive arguments that I have harbored for a long time, and to articulate them as well as I can.

There is another compelling reason for such a course of action: survivors are a vanishing breed, but questions like those quoted will be around for a long time to come. And of whom will they be asked? Of Jews. The “expertise” about the martyrdom of the Holocaust will be inherited by generation upon generation of Jews. The surviving Jew, therefore, has the added obligation to provide future Jews with authentic material with which to withstand the onslaught of future questions. Naturally, not only non-Jews will ask the questions; fellow Jews will ask them as well -- what is more, they are doing so already.

Even the most basic question is being asked of me in all sincerity and will continue to be asked of Jews, no matter how outrageous it may appear to us that we, of all people, should provide an answer. I refer to the question: How could a country of such high culture as Germany become the nation of the Holocaust? In response I routinely say that millions of words of learned analyses have not yet provided an answer, and I advise the questioner to inquire of a German Aryan, not of me. But this is, of course, a subterfuge, and I notice the resulting disappointment. By some special logic the Jew is the expert on all aspects of the Holocaust. This is true of the survivor and will be true of the Jews hereafter. And since the still-living survivors do have direct access to some of the facts, they must lay the foundation for eventual answers.

There is, then, no getting out from under the obligation to face the questions asked ad hominem: about meekly going to the slaughter, about hiding behind the barbed wire of the concentration camp, and about not leaving Germany while the leaving was good. For, after all, there were some who did not go like sheep, there were a handful who did attempt to flee from the camps, and there were many thousands who left Germany in time. For a beginning, I shall pick only one of these three sample questions for a sample reply -- the easiest: Why didn’t you leave Germany while there was still time?

One reason this is for me the easiest of the three is that it is the most limited as concerns time and space. I am offered the temporary comfort of not having to consider eastern European Jews, who paid a still higher price in suffering and death, or Austrian Jews, who shared in our fate but began doing so at a later time.

Even so, I still have one reservation. When this question is asked with the implication that those who left Germany early were the only farsighted ones -- people of action, without illusions and false sentimentality -- I reserve for myself the right to keep silent. Why should I heap insult on injury for myself and the other 200,000 German Jews who did not leave while there was still time?



Here, then, are a number of formulated thoughts in connection with that question.

1. I was 18 when Hitler came to power, and I was beginning my education toward a professional career.

2. During the first year of Hitler’s rule most of us thought that he would disappear from the stage now that he had been given responsibilities. We had no doubt that he would fail, just as those before him had failed, and that would be the end of him and his histrionics.

3. For the next three years (approximately through 1936) we thought we would be able to endure the discrimination, the impoverishment, the threat to life and limb to some of us, as other Jewish generations had endured. For together with the blows that fell on us there grew an inner regeneration, an awakening of Jewish consciousness, a pride in our Judaism, a readiness to suffer for it and eventually to triumph through it which I do not believe is paralleled in any three-year period of Jewish history. Far too, little is known as yet about this short-lived inner Jewish renaissance under outside pressure. But just count the publications of the Schocken-Verlag or the Jüdischer Verlag in Berlin during those three years. And let us not forget that along with this newly found wellspring of strength we were still proud of and practicing our German heritage, and often we felt that we were the only true Germans.

4. How many people have ever given thought to what it means to tear oneself up by the roots and leave an environment that has been one’s physical, cultural and emotional home perhaps for generations? The uprooting I mean is totally different from the “Get thee out of thy country” imperative that went out to Abraham, which carried with it God’s promise about “a land I will show thee” (Gen. 12:1). An uprooting that is totally involuntary causes great pain. Even in the concentration camp, moving to a different camp or having to leave a barracks with which you had become familiar and go to a different one was a misfortune. Strangely, in the flight of refugees we seldom consider the initial stage: that of being uprooted. We begin to develop a degree of empathy only after they have become “boat people,” so to speak.

5. I readily admit that many of us feared the shock of being uprooted and tried to avoid it if at all possible. But to understand this reaction, you will have to believe me when I say that nobody could possibly have foreseen the “final solution.” I am quite sure that this also applies to the Nazi leadership during the earlier years. To me, everyone who says that he or she foresaw the slaughter of our people, and that it was all written in Mein Kampf, is a liar, or has forgotten the limits of the human mind before Auschwitz. When in October and November 1944 the first evacuees from Auschwitz arrived in Bergen-Belsen (a camp where prisoners died only from starvation, exhaustion, disease and maltreatment) and told us about the gas chambers, we did not believe them.

6. There was even a moral objection against emigrating. I remember that as a child I sometimes caught the phrase: “Der musste nach Amerika” -- that is, “So-and-so had to go to America.” This was said of someone who, perhaps generations ago, emigrated to avoid army service, to evade the police, to escape creditors, or someone who just could not make a living at home. In short, the association with emigration was negative; a person “in good standing” did not emigrate. We had been brought up on the precept Bleibe im Lande und nähre dich redlich: “Stay in the land and make an honest living.” Ironically, most of us had no idea that this so typically German proverb was nothing but Luther’s translation of a verse from the Hebrew Psalms (37:3). In some families this prejudice against emigration in any form went back to emigrants after the political upheavals of 1815 and 1848, to the very scions of “our crowd” in this country.

7. In the summer of 1935 the graduating class of my Hebrew Teachers Seminary organized a trip to Palestine. One of the students stayed there illegally; a second would have liked to stay, but his father forbade it sternly. All others returned and assumed their new positions in Germany.

8. Many Jewish leaders felt they had to stay as shepherds of their flock. But some of the most highly placed leaders advised other Jews to remain as well. This feeling of duty to stay was not limited to, say, rabbis; I felt it strongly as a teacher in a Jewish grade school, and also as a son. For if an opportunity had offered itself to me as a young man, it was certain that I would have had to leave my mother in the midst of the danger I sought to escape. Many cases of able-bodied young persons who were given the chance and left, of rabbis who made use of their special standing outside the immigration quota, filled us with sadness and indignation. The situation was not yet one of “everyone for himself,” and for some it never came to that.

Beginning perhaps with the Nuremberg Laws in the fall of 1935, and from then on increasingly through 1938, the terror grew and the belief of a Jewish future in Germany faded away. Then many of us who had not done so before began to contemplate emigration.

9. Before the open panic started, reaching the decision to emigrate was still an individual process; some arrived at it earlier, others later. People who were still employed or in business probably tarried longer than those without means. But aside from this factor, individuals have different thresholds, even with regard to acting and reacting in the face of grave danger. Once the decision had been made, the urgency grew quickly, and the feeling was: the sooner the better. But at that time there was, connected to the willingness to emigrate, still the consideration of where to go and how to build a new future there.

10. Now there was this true tragedy: in the measure that the need to emigrate became evident, in the same measure the opportunities for emigrating decreased rapidly and radically. The American immigration quota was overdrawn, and the consulates handed out waiting numbers that stretched ahead years into the future. The certificates for Palestine sharply decreased because the mandatory power did not want to alienate the Arabs. As far as England itself was concerned, the demand for housemaids -- one of the few ways of being admitted to England, except for a number of children transports -- was saturated. Those countries that sold entry visas asked ever-higher sums, and there were ever fewer Jews who could raise the money.

All in all, long before the German exit door was slammed shut, immigration countries barricaded themselves effectively against the Jews. The causes were economic and social, combined with the fear of displeasing Hitler or outright sympathy with his goals and methods, among them anti-Semitism. By that time, every Jew in Germany spoke his own “Get thee out,” but God did not show him a land.

11. I wonder whether those who ask such a question as “Why did you not leave Germany while there was still time?” realize that not everyone could have emigrated. There were definite qualifications and conditions, and those who did not meet them could not leave. Our conversations were governed by such things as affidavits, sponsors, certificates, quotas and visas, requirements of age, skills and health, relatives abroad, rumored loopholes in immigration laws from New Zealand to Chile. Thousands, tens of thousands of German Jews simply could not emigrate if their life depended on it -- which it did. And if I, a healthy young man with a certain sense of adventure, could not emigrate, what about young children and old people, the sick and the handicapped?

12. The greatest irony, something that to us could only appear as a cruel hoax, was the international conference on the refugee problem held at Evian, France, in July 1938. If President Roosevelt had deliberately convened it as a political measure to demonstrate to his constituency in the U.S. that the state of the economy, especially the unemployment situation, did not permit the immigration of any more Jews, he could not have chosen a more effective means. Strange that he should not have realized what the outcome would be; we Jews in Germany knew that the conference would lead to precisely nothing, for each of us had heard the regrets and refusals of the different countries privately, before at that conference delegate after delegate from country after country stated them publicly. There were gloating headlines in the German press day after day during the conference: how right Hitler had proven to be, how the world was beginning to see things his way, how nobody wanted the Jews.

There were tiny sparks of hope -- and I want to single out Australia and the Dominican Republic for a blessing -- but they only emphasized the total darkness on the face of the earth. We read the newspapers with a growing dread; we were glued to the radio in honor. Right there in Evian our fate was sealed. We did not have to wait another two months for Chamberlain’s journey to Munich to know that the world was buckling under to Hitler. As directly as Chamberlain’s Munich led to the invasion of Czechoslovakia and Poland, as surely Roosevelt’s Evian made possible the Crystal Night. The message was loud and clear: do what you want with your Jews -- it’s an internal affair. And we, the rest of the world, won’t lift a finger.

13. It is commonplace to say that the Crystal Night was the dress rehearsal for what was to come. It is seldom realized that it was also a last chance. The world was being tested once more for its moral fiber, and once more the world failed. For a few days after the event, border police in neighboring countries -- Holland, Belgium, France -- were less strict about repelling Jews who dared the desperate nighttime dash over a frontier in the woods. Then this loophole was closed too, and the trap shut on us.



As for the Jews left in post-Crystal Night Germany there was nobody anymore who had any hesitation about leaving. Never mind tearing up old roots or striking new ones; it was a mad scramble. But emigration was available for only a few; the rest were caught. Quiet despair settled over us. We continued our different tasks under ever-worsening conditions; I went on teaching at my Jewish grade school. Many of us were very pessimistic, depressed and gloomy; many anticipated still worse to come, even though nobody imagined -- or could have imagined -- Einsatzkommandos and gas chambers.

One more thing I did not anticipate: that 40 years later a well-meaning student of a brand-new academic subject called “Holocaust Studies” would ask me: “Why didn’t you leave Germany while there was still time?”

Sociological Criticism of the Old Testament



Sociological criticism addresses long-noticed social features of the biblical text. The single most pervasive subject of the Old Testament traditions is the community of Israel itself. It is equally apparent that Israel lived in differing forms of social organization over its long history: as extended families or clans under patriarchs, as tribes during the period from Moses to Saul, first as one and later as two kingdoms from David to the destruction of Jerusalem, as refugees groups in homeland and exile, and as a colony under great empires with home rule dually exercised by priests and governors after the exile.

Transitions between the phases of Israelite social organization -- from tribes to kingship or from refugee status to colonization -- were stormy and strongly contested within the community. Clashes between opposing socioeconomic and political interests surfaced in what were supposedly purely “religious” reform movements, such as the communal reorganizations achieved by the Deuteronomic party and by Nehemiah. Conflicting social interests were at work in the regional divisions between northern Israel and southern Judah, notably in the rift between Samaritans and Jews.

If the Old Testament is self-evidently social, what is so controversial about sociological criticism? The sore point lies in the move from social observation to sociological criticism. “Social” is a catch-all category for group behaviors and meanings, whereas “sociological” refers to methods and theories for systematically describing and explaining group behaviors and meanings.

We can best appreciate the controversy over sociological criticism of the Bible by noting the impact of scientific method in the history of biblical studies. Each new form of biblical criticism has offered explanations for biblical features previously passed over or explained on the basis of common sense, prejudice or dogma. In every instance, the new critical method was both resisted and welcomed.

A major leap in understanding occurred when literary criticism introduced methods and theories to explain authorship, dates and sources of Old Testament writings. “Defenders of the Bible” rejected the appropriateness of applying such criteria to a sacred book with a single divine author. Literary criticism went on to vindicate itself and eventually to lay bare features of biblical literature that could be treated only by the introduction of form criticism, tradition-historical criticism and redaction criticism, and, more recently, by new literary criticism, rhetorical criticism and structuralism.

A similar qualitative leap in understanding took place as historical criticism supplied methods and models of historical inquiry, on the assumption that the biblical accounts, like all reporting, expressed the selective viewpoints of human observers. Reactionaries rejected the legitimacy of applying such criteria to a sacred history that was thought to have happened exactly as related, requiring only a harmonizing of apparent discrepancies. Historical criticism proceeded to demonstrate its validity by uncovering the history of Israel within its ancient Near Eastern milieu and by clarifying the connections between that history and the growth of the biblical literature.

Do the older methods of biblical criticism capture all the important dimensions of Scripture? Suppose that literary and historical criticism began a process of understanding that only additional forms of criticism can complete. The adequacy of our understanding of the biblical text is at stake in the qualitative leap from social observation to sociological criticism, a process for examining biblical social behavior and self-understanding according to methods and theories developed for the study of social reality at large. But do we want that kind of social knowledge and understanding? Predictably, there is fear that study of biblical religion as an aspect of social systems will undercut the uniqueness of the Bible and plunge believers into “unspiritual” social controversy.



A loose body of social observations has accumulated concerning patriarchs on the move, the wanderings of Israel in the wilderness, and the tribal organization of the settled Israelites. From these observations, theories were constructed about Israelite pastoral nomads from the desert who invaded or infiltrated Canaan. These theories were formulated by biblical critics on the basis of naïve precritical sociological assumptions.

With the presumably self-evident “desert origins” model of pastoral nomads in mind, it was easy to cite parallels among pre-Islamic Bedouins. With the “religion as chief cause of Israelite society” assumption in view, it was tempting to find parallels to inter-tribal Israel among the Greek sacral leagues (amphictyonies) by which city-states joined for worship and the upkeep and protection of a central shrine. Cross-cultural comparisons from Arabia and Greece gave the appearance of sociological support without an actual sustained application of social-scientific method to all the steps of inquiry, especially to the initial undergirding assumptions.

The tenuousness of precritical biblical social models is exposed by a few elementary questions. Is it true that all, or most, tribal people are pastoral nomads? No. While some tribalists are pastoral nomads or hunters, fishers and gatherers in environments with abundant wild food, most tribally organized people are engaged in simple agriculture.

Are all population movements nomadic? Not at all. People sometimes move because of historical or natural displacement; movements are nomadic only when people migrate in regular itineraries in the pursuit of their occupation. Are all the tribal features of early Israel signs of pastoral nomadism or of pastoral nomadic survivals? By no means. Israel’s tribal traits are better understood as indicators of a “retribalizing” village network with a peasant base incorporating some pastoral nomads on the fringes of Canaan. Similarly, some biblical population movements were more historical than occupational -- notably the exodus from Egypt as a flight from oppression.

George E. Mendenhall first declared that the pastoral nomadic theory, like the proverbial emperor, “has no clothes” (“The Hebrew Conquest of Palestine,” the Biblical Archaeologist 25 [1962], pp. 66-87). Mendenhall proposed the alternative model of a peasant uprising among the Canaanite lower classes, catalyzed by escaped slaves from Egypt who brought the religion of Yahweh into the ranks of the insurgent peasants. His hypothesis was largely ignored or dismissed, even after he elaborated it in The Tenth Generation: Origins of the Biblical Tradition (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973). Nevertheless, the capacity of the model to throw light on broad areas of Israelite origins could not be neglected indefinitely. For one thing, it illuminated the prominence of the exodus and warrior-god imagery of Israel’s religion. Moreover, it accorded with the abundance of agricultural references in the earliest traditions of Israel. It also made social historical sense of the strong indications that only a fraction of early Israelites participated in the exodus and that the Joshua narration a massive Israelite invasion and annihilation of Canaanites was a late “revisionist” interpretation by the Deuteronomists.

Recently I have advanced an expanded and amended version of an early Israelite social revolution in The Tribes of Yahweh: A Sociology of the Religion of Liberated Israel, 1250-1050 B.C.E. (Orbis, 1979). An array of biblical, archaeological, social theoretical and comparative anthropological and social historical data was marshaled to argue a form of the hypothesis diverging from Mendenhall in important respects. I laid greater stress on the protracted and many-sided revolutionary struggle that elicited varying responses from different sectors of the Canaanite populace. I also emphasized that, while Israel’s tribal system was not a state, it was a form of political-military organization that used force to establish its domain in the hill country against the counterrevolutionary force of Canaanite city-states. Furthermore, I urged that the religion of Yahweh, though a vital ideological force in the movement, was not a sole or isolated cause of all the accompanying events and processes but an aspect of the total social complex that ranged from techno-environmental realities to the symbolic and ritual culture of the new religion.

If the hypothesis of social revolution as the matrix of biblical Israel stands, it will be qualified and deepened beyond any of its present formulations. In assessing the hypothesis, social scientific methods and theories will be fully acknowledged as privileged factors in the inquiry. It will no longer be tenable to spin out social models about early Israel as “hunches” derived from simplistic readings of the literary and historical data, or as “wishes” expressing the interpreters’ social and theological preferences. To argue, for example, that the biblical deity would never have been party to a social revolution will become as scientifically and religiously foolish as to contend that God would never have created the world by an evolutionary process.



Curiously, the monarchy has not been extensively treated to date with social-scientific methodology. Scholars within the Social World of Ancient Israel Group (1975-81) of the Society of Biblical Literature, and in preparation for a Seminar on the Sociology of the Israelite Monarchy (1982-86), have just begun to tap rich resources in state formation theory.

Prophecy, last treated with social theoretical depth by Max Weber, is coming under renewed sociological scrutiny. Robert R. Wilson in Prophecy and Society in Ancient Israel (Fortress, 1980) employs anthropological data on prophetlike figures whom he calls intermediaries between the spirit world and the human world. He traces how societies shape and credential the intermediary roles and how intermediaries function both as supporters of the central establishment and as critics and irritants on the periphery of the society. Wilson uses the results discriminatingly to clarify options for understanding biblical prophets in their social roles.

Along related lines, Anthropological Perspectives on Old Testament Prophecy (Semeia, no. 21, 1982) contains essays by Martin 1. Buss (call narratives), Burke O. Long (prophetic conflict), Thomas W. Overholt (cross-cultural comparison), and Robert R. Wilson (apocalyptic), with responses by anthropologists Kenelm Burridge and I. M. Lewis and by biblical critic N. K. Gottwald. In addition to the anthropological data, we need to gather social historical information on prophets and prophetic movements in literate societies and to trace the social and religious contradictions in conflict situations as perceived by the prophetic parties (see my reference in Semeia 21 to the essay by Henri Mottu on ideology in Jeremiah, to be republished in The Bible and Liberation, revised edition, edited by N. K. Gottwald [Orb is, forthcoming]).

Working with the cognitive dissonance theory of Leon Festinger, Robert R. Carroll has analyzed how prophetic promises were seen to be fulfilled by modifying their interpretation in order to adjust for delays or contrary events that threatened to disconfirm the original understandings. In When Prophecy Failed: Cognitive Dissonance in the Prophetic Traditions of the Old Testament (Seabury, 1979), Carroll concentrates on Isaiah and Haggai-Zechariah and proposes social functions for the inner-biblical reinterpretation of texts which redaction criticism, canonical criticism and midrash studies have approached from other angles.



Social factors in apocalyptic are advanced by Paul O. Hanson in The Dawn of Apocalyptic (Fortress, 1975). Through a literary and conceptual assessment of Isaiah 56-66 and Zechariah 9-14, Hanson detects a movement from proto-apocalyptic Deutero-Isaiah to full-blown apocalyptic, all within a century or so of the return from exile. The social component is an early postexilic power struggle between a defeated “visionary” faction of disciples of Deutero-Isaiah and a victorious “hierocratic” or priestly faction of Zadokites. Ezekiel, Haggai-Zechariah, and Chronicles are products of the hierocratic faction, while the apocalyptic texts of Trito-Isaiah and Deutero-Zechariah are the products of the visionary faction. Hanson believes that, because the reforms of Ezra and Nehemiah subsequently reduced socioreligious conflict, apocalyptic did not re-emerge with force until later Maccabean times.

In contrast to the extensive use of social scientific theory in the works of Gottwald, Wilson and Carroll, Hanson’s use of sociological theory is confined to limited citation of categories from Karl Mannheim, Max Weber and Ernst Troeltsch as alternative ways of typifying the hierocratic and visionary parties. Hanson’s early dating of full-blown apocalyptic and his sharp division of the postexilic society into two parties are in dispute, along with his claim that apocalyptic developed directly out of communities of frustrated prophets. Wilson (Semeia 21) contends that apocalyptic was a form of expression that tended to emerge among any socially blocked group in postexilic Israel, irrespective of office or tradition.

Walter Brueggemann has sketched a trajectory of conflicting Israelite social groups correlated with a trajectory of literary and theological traditions (Journal of Biblical Literature 98 [1979], pp. 161-85). This endeavor at a grid for the whole of Israelite socioreligious history both indicates the potentialities in sociological method and pinpoints major gaps in our knowledge. Brueggemann’s placement of certain texts is problematic, and the lack of analysis of the political economy (modes of production) leaves much to be done before such trajectories can be offered with sufficient detail and persuasion. Meanwhile, George V. Pixley, in God’s Kingdom: A Guide for Biblical Study (Orbis, 1981), provides a brief initial articulation of the modes of production during the several eras of biblical history.

Contributions from the social theorists Emile Durkheim, Max Weber and Karl Marx are entering increasingly into sociological criticism of the Bible. Among the influential aspects of their work are Durkheim’s understanding of religious beliefs as social facts and of the division of labor in society; Weber’s fascination with the interplay between economics and religion and his analysis of traditional, charismatic and bureaucratic forms of authority; and Marx’s analysis of the modes of production and his comprehensive grasp of the conditioning force of political economy on societal structure and ideology.

I find methodological and conceptual values in all these theorists. In my efforts to grasp the social formation of early Israel in all its interacting facets, I concluded that Marx provided the most inclusive, dynamic and incisive model of human society, within which the work of Durkheim, Weber and others can be incorporated constructively (Tribes of Yahweh, chapters 50-51). Evaluation of the adequacy of methods, theories and research strategies will dearly be a vital aspect of a maturing sociological criticism.



I have been asked by readers of The Tribes of Yahweh if theology is still possible in the wake of sociological criticism of the Bible. It seems that many people are still operating with a “God in the gaps” notion of theology: whatever cannot be explained by some other theory remains the province of theology, while whatever can be convincingly explained by some other theory is denied to theology. This way of conceiving theology raises the specter of “reductionism” with its fear that theology will lose more -- maybe even all -- of its sacred ground.

What about this reductionist charge against sociological criticism? Every method of knowing involves reduction of what is studied to regularities in phenomena and to abstractions about the relationships of the phenomena. Literary criticism reduces texts. Historical criticism reduces events. Sociological criticism reduces social structures and processes. Theological criticism reduces religious beliefs and practices. Frankly, no discipline is more radical in its reductions than theology, which asserts how data drawn from many realms of experience and ways of knowing can be plausibly subsumed under the rubrics of God, humanity, sin, grace, faith, eschatology or whatever categories are favored.

The mandate of theology is continually to re-examine its status and ground in relation both to faith and to all the data it alleges to explain. Theology is an inevitable trafficker in reductionist currencies, since it must take into account whatever is plausibly validated by other ways of knowing, especially when referring to data which form part of its own prime evidence, as in the case of biblical traditions. One such significant prime datum is the growing disclosure that ancient Israel’s religion was a function of -- as well as a set of symbols and practices within -- a long conflictual social history that had revolutionary origins (Tribes of Yahweh, chapters 55-56).

Insofar as theology is an arm of the church, the church itself is called to grapple with the social conflictual origins and substance of its own Bible and to ponder deeply what all this means for the church’s placement in society and for its social mission.