A Secular Age

A Secular Age charles taylor

The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press Cambridge, Massachusetts, and London, England

•

2007

Copyright © 2007 by Charles Taylor All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Design by Annamarie McMahon Why Poems by Robinson Jeffers are quoted from The Collected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers, ed. Tim Hunt (Stanford University Press, 2001). Copyright © 1927, 1955 by Robinson Jeffers; copyright Jeffers Literary Properties. All rights reserved. Used with the permission of Stanford University Press. “Rock and Hawk,” copyright 1934 and renewed 1962 by Donnan Jeffers and Garth Jeffers, is quoted from Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers by Robinson Jeffers. Used by permission of Random House, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Taylor, Charles, 1931– A secular age / Charles Taylor. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-674-02676-6 (alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-674-02676-4 (alk. paper) 1. Secularism. 2. Religion and culture. I. Title. BL2747.8.T39 2007 211⬘.6—dc22 2007008005

Contents

Preface

ix

Introduction

1

part i 1 2 3 4 5

The Work of Reform

The Bulwarks of Belief The Rise of the Disciplinary Society The Great Disembedding Modern Social Imaginaries The Spectre of Idealism

part ii

8 9 10 11

146 159 212

221 270

The Nova Effect

The Malaises of Modernity The Dark Abyss of Time The Expanding Universe of Unbelief Nineteenth-Century Trajectories

part iv

90

The Turning Point

6 Providential Deism 7 The Impersonal Order

part iii

25

299 322 352 377

Narratives of Secularization

12 The Age of Mobilization 13 The Age of Authenticity 14 Religion Today

423 473 505

contents

viii

part v 15 16 17 18 19 20

Conditions of Belief

The Immanent Frame Cross Pressures Dilemmas 1 Dilemmas 2 Unquiet Frontiers of Modernity Conversions

539 594 618 676 711 728

Epilogue: The Many Stories

773

Notes Index

779 853

Preface

This book emerges from my Gifford Lectures at Edinburgh in the spring of 1999, entitled “Living in a Secular Age?”. It’s been quite some time since then, and in fact the scope of the work has expanded. Basically, the lectures of 1999 covered Parts I– III of the present book, and Parts IV and V deal with matters I wanted to discuss then, but lacked the time and competence to treat properly. (I hope the passing years have helped in this regard.) The book has grown since 1999, and also increased its scope. But the first process hasn’t kept pace with the second: The larger scope would have demanded a much bigger book than I am now offering to the reader. I am telling a story, that of what we usually call “secularization” in the modern West. And in doing so, I am trying to clarify what this process, often invoked, but still not very clear, amounts to. To do this properly, I should have had to tell a denser and more continuous story, something I have neither the time nor the competence to do. I ask the reader who picks up this book not to think of it as a continuous storyand-argument, but rather as a set of interlocking essays, which shed light on each other, and offer a context of relevance for each other. I hope the general thrust of my thesis will emerge from this sketchy treatment, and will suggest to others further ways of developing, applying, modifying, and transposing the argument. I want to thank the Gifford Lectures Committee at Edinburgh for giving me the initial impetus to start on this project. I also owe a debt of gratitude to the Canada Council for an Isaac Killam Fellowship during 1996–1998, which allowed me to get started; and to the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada for their Gold Medal Award of 2003. I benefited greatly from visits to the Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen in Vienna in 2000 and 2001. The Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin gave me a fellowship in 2005–2006 that allowed me to complete the project in the best possible conditions, including discussions with José Casanova and Hans Joas, who have been working on parallel projects.

x

p re face

I must also express my gratitude to the members of the network around the Centre for Transcultural Studies. Some of the key concepts I use in this work have emerged during our exchanges. In producing the book, I was greatly helped by Bryan Smyth, who made or discovered many of the translations as well as preparing the index. Unmarked translations are almost always by him, occasionally modified by myself.

Introduction

1 What does it mean to say that we live in a secular age? Almost everyone would agree that in some sense we do: I mean the “we” who live in the West, or perhaps Northwest, or otherwise put, the North Atlantic world—although secularity extends also partially, and in different ways, beyond this world. And the judgment of secularity seems hard to resist when we compare these societies with anything else in human history: that is, with almost all other contemporary societies (e.g., Islamic countries, India, Africa), on one hand; and with the rest of human history, Atlantic or otherwise, on the other. But it’s not so clear in what this secularity consists. There are two big candidates for its characterization—or perhaps, better, families of candidate. The first concentrates on the common institutions and practices—most obviously, but not only, the state. The difference would then consist in this, that whereas the political organization of all pre-modern societies was in some way connected to, based on, guaranteed by some faith in, or adherence to God, or some notion of ultimate reality, the modern Western state is free from this connection. Churches are now separate from political structures (with a couple of exceptions, in Britain and the Scandinavian countries, which are so low-key and undemanding as not really to constitute exceptions). Religion or its absence is largely a private matter. The political society is seen as that of believers (of all stripes) and non-believers alike.1 Put in another way, in our “secular” societies, you can engage fully in politics without ever encountering God, that is, coming to a point where the crucial importance of the God of Abraham for this whole enterprise is brought home forcefully and unmistakably. The few moments of vestigial ritual or prayer barely constitute such an encounter today, but this would have been inescapable in earlier centuries in Christendom. This way of putting it allows us to see that more than the state is involved in this change. If we go back a few centuries in our civilization, we see that God was pres-

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ent in the above sense in a whole host of social practices—not just the political— and at all levels of society: for instance, when the functioning mode of local government was the parish, and the parish was still primarily a community of prayer; or when guilds maintained a ritual life that was more than pro forma; or when the only modes in which the society in all its components could display itself to itself were religious feasts, like, for instance, the Corpus Christi procession. In those societies, you couldn’t engage in any kind of public activity without “encountering God” in the above sense. But the situation is totally different today. And if you go back even farther in human history, you come to archaic societies in which the whole set of distinctions we make between the religious, political, economic, social, etc., aspects of our society ceases to make sense. In these earlier societies, religion was “everywhere”,2 was interwoven with everything else, and in no sense constituted a separate “sphere” of its own. One understanding of secularity then is in terms of public spaces. These have been allegedly emptied of God, or of any reference to ultimate reality. Or taken from another side, as we function within various spheres of activity—economic, political, cultural, educational, professional, recreational—the norms and principles we follow, the deliberations we engage in, generally don’t refer us to God or to any religious beliefs; the considerations we act on are internal to the “rationality” of each sphere—maximum gain within the economy, the greatest benefit to the greatest number in the political area, and so on. This is in striking contrast to earlier periods, when Christian faith laid down authoritative prescriptions, often through the mouths of the clergy, which could not be easily ignored in any of these domains, such as the ban on usury, or the obligation to enforce orthodoxy.3 But whether we see this in terms of prescriptions, or in terms of ritual or ceremonial presence, this emptying of religion from autonomous social spheres is, of course, compatible with the vast majority of people still believing in God, and practising their religion vigorously. The case of Communist Poland springs to mind. This is perhaps a bit of a red herring, because the public secularity was imposed there by a dictatorial and unpopular régime. But the United States is rather striking in this regard. One of the earliest societies to separate Church and State, it is also the Western society with the highest statistics for religious belief and practice. And yet this is the issue that people often want to get at when they speak of our times as secular, and contrast them, nostalgically or with relief, with earlier ages of faith or piety. In this second meaning, secularity consists in the falling off of religious belief and practice, in people turning away from God, and no longer going to Church. In this sense, the countries of western Europe have mainly become secular—even those who retain the vestigial public reference to God in public space. Now I believe that an examination of this age as secular is worth taking up in a

i ntrodu c ti on

3

third sense, closely related to the second, and not without connection to the first. This would focus on the conditions of belief. The shift to secularity in this sense consists, among other things, of a move from a society where belief in God is unchallenged and indeed, unproblematic, to one in which it is understood to be one option among others, and frequently not the easiest to embrace. In this meaning, as against sense 2, at least many milieux in the United States are secularized, and I would argue that the United States as a whole is. Clear contrast cases today would be the majority of Muslim societies, or the milieux in which the vast majority of Indians live. It wouldn’t matter if one showed that the statistics for church/synagogue attendance in the U.S., or some regions of it, approached those for Friday mosque attendance in, say, Pakistan or Jordan (or this, plus daily prayer). That would be evidence towards classing these societies as the same in sense 2. Nevertheless, it seems to me evident that there are big differences between these societies in what it is to believe, stemming in part from the fact that belief is an option, and in some sense an embattled option in the Christian (or “post-Christian”) society, and not (or not yet) in the Muslim ones. So what I want to do is examine our society as secular in this third sense, which I could perhaps encapsulate in this way: the change I want to define and trace is one which takes us from a society in which it was virtually impossible not to believe in God, to one in which faith, even for the staunchest believer, is one human possibility among others. I may find it inconceivable that I would abandon my faith, but there are others, including possibly some very close to me, whose way of living I cannot in all honesty just dismiss as depraved, or blind, or unworthy, who have no faith (at least not in God, or the transcendent). Belief in God is no longer axiomatic. There are alternatives. And this will also likely mean that at least in certain milieux, it may be hard to sustain one’s faith. There will be people who feel bound to give it up, even though they mourn its loss. This has been a recognizable experience in our societies, at least since the mid-nineteenth century. There will be many others to whom faith never even seems an eligible possibility. There are certainly millions today of whom this is true. Secularity in this sense is a matter of the whole context of understanding in which our moral, spiritual or religious experience and search takes place. By ‘context of understanding’ here, I mean both matters that will probably have been explicitly formulated by almost everyone, such as the plurality of options, and some which form the implicit, largely unfocussed background of this experience and search, its “pre-ontology”, to use a Heideggerian term. An age or society would then be secular or not, in virtue of the conditions of experience of and search for the spiritual. Obviously, where it stood in this dimension would have a lot to do with how secular it was in the second sense, which turns on

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levels of belief and practice, but there is no simple correlation between the two, as the case of the U.S. shows. As for the first sense, which concerns public space, this may be uncorrelated with both the others (as might be argued for the case of India). But I will maintain that in fact, in the Western case, the shift to public secularity has been part of what helped to bring on a secular age in my third sense.

2 Articulating the conditions of experience turns out to be harder than one might think. This is partly because people tend to be focussed on belief itself. What people are usually interested in, what arouses a lot of the anguish and conflict, is the second issue: what do people believe and practice? How many believe in God? In which direction is the trend going? Concern for public secularity often relates to the issue of what people believe or practice, and of how they are treated in consequence: does our secularist régime marginalize believing Christians, as some claim in the U.S.A.? Or does it stigmatize hitherto unrecognized groups? African-Americans, Hispanics? or else gays and lesbians? But in our societies, the big issue about religion is usually defined in terms of belief. First Christianity has always defined itself in relation to credal statements. And secularism in sense 2 has often been seen as the decline of Christian belief; and this decline as largely powered by the rise of other beliefs, in science, reason, or by the deliverances of particular sciences: for instance, evolutionary theory, or neuro-physiological explanations of mental functioning. Part of my reason for wanting to shift the focus to the conditions of belief, experience and search is that I’m not satisfied with this explanation of secularism 2: science refutes and hence crowds out religious belief. I’m dissatisfied on two, related levels. First, I don’t see the cogency of the supposed arguments from, say, the findings of Darwin to the alleged refutations of religion. And secondly, partly for this reason, I don’t see this as an adequate explanation for why in fact people abandoned their faith, even when they themselves articulate what happened in such terms as “Darwin refuted the Bible”, as allegedly said by a Harrow schoolboy in the 1890s.4 Of course bad arguments can figure as crucial in perfectly good psychological or historical explanations. But bad arguments like this, which leave out so many viable possibilities between fundamentalism and atheism, cry out for some account why these other roads were not travelled. This deeper account, I think, is to be found at the level I’m trying to explore. I will return to this shortly. In order to get a little bit clearer on this level, I want to talk about belief and unbelief, not as rival theories, that is, ways that people account for existence, or morality, whether by God or by something in nature, or whatever. Rather what I want to

part

I

The Work of Reform

1

The Bulwarks of Belief

1 One way to put the question that I want to answer here is this: why was it virtually impossible not to believe in God in, say, 1500 in our Western society, while in 2000 many of us find this not only easy, but even inescapable? Part of the answer, no doubt, is that in those days everyone believed, and so the alternatives seemed outlandish. But this just pushes the question further back. We need to understand how things changed. How did the alternatives become thinkable? One important part of the picture is that so many features of their world told in favour of belief, made the presence of God seemingly undeniable. I will mention three, which will play a part in the story I want to tell. (1) The natural world they lived in, which had its place in the cosmos they imagined, testified to divine purpose and action; and not just in the obvious way which we can still understand and (at least many of us) appreciate today, that its order and design bespeaks creation; but also because the great events in this natural order, storms, droughts, floods, plagues, as well as years of exceptional fertility and flourishing, were seen as acts of God, as the now dead metaphor of our legal language still bears witness. (2) God was also implicated in the very existence of society (but not described as such—this is a modern term—rather as polis, kingdom, church, or whatever). A kingdom could only be conceived as grounded in something higher than mere human action in secular time. And beyond that, the life of the various associations which made up society, parishes, boroughs, guilds, and so on, were interwoven with ritual and worship, as I mentioned in the previous chapter. One could not but encounter God everywhere. (3) People lived in an “enchanted” world. This is perhaps not the best expression; it seems to evoke light and fairies. But I am invoking here its negation, Weber’s expression “disenchantment” as a description of our modern condition. This term has

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achieved such wide currency in our discussion of these matters, that I’m going to use its antonym to describe a crucial feature of the pre-modern condition. The enchanted world in this sense is the world of spirits, demons, and moral forces which our ancestors lived in. People who live in this kind of world don’t necessarily believe in God, certainly not in the God of Abraham, as the existence of countless “pagan” societies shows. But in the outlook of European peasants in 1500, beyond all the inevitable ambivalences, the Christian God was the ultimate guarantee that good would triumph or at least hold the plentiful forces of darkness at bay. Atheism comes close to being inconceivable in a world with these three features. It just seems so obvious that God is there, acting in the cosmos, founding and sustaining societies, acting as a bulwark against evil. So part of the answer to my opening question, what happened between 1500 and 2000? is that these three features have vanished. But that can’t be the whole story, as I argued in the previous chapter. The rise of modernity isn’t just a story of loss, of subtraction. The key difference we’re looking at between our two marker dates is a shift in the understanding of what I called “fullness”, between a condition in which our highest spiritual and moral aspirations point us inescapably to God, one might say, make no sense without God, to one in which they can be related to a host of different sources, and frequently are referred to sources which deny God. Now the disappearance of these three modes of God’s felt presence in our world, while it certainly facilitates this change, couldn’t by itself bring it about. Because we can certainly go on experiencing fullness as a gift from God, even in a disenchanted world, a secular society, and a post-cosmic universe. In order to be able not to, we needed an alternative. And so the story I have to tell will relate not only how God’s presence receded in these three dimensions; it also has to explain how something other than God could become the necessary objective pole of moral or spiritual aspiration, of “fullness”. In a sense, the big question of what happened is, how did alternatives to the God-reference of fullness arise? What I’ll be concerned with is the Entstehungsgeschichte of exclusive humanism. A common “subtraction” story attributes everything to disenchantment. First, science gave us “naturalistic” explanation of the world. And then people began to look for alternatives to God. But things didn’t work that way. The new mechanistic science of the seventeenth century wasn’t seen as necessarily threatening to God. It was to the enchanted universe and magic. It also began to pose a problem for particular providences. But there were important Christian motives for going the route of disenchantment. Darwin was not even on the horizon in the eighteenth century. Then, of course, society comes to be seen in secular terms. People make revolutions. In certain cases, this involved rebelling against churches. But it could be in

the bu lwarks of belief

27

the name of other church structures, as in the 1640s, and with a strong sense of Providence guiding us. A fuller subtraction story holds that not just disenchantment, but the fading of God’s presence in all three domains made us look afresh at the alternative possible reference-points for fullness. As though these were already there, just waiting to be invited in. My point is that, in an important sense, they weren’t yet there. True, there were various doctrines, which some people had imagined, even which orthodox writers had inveighed against; in some cases, which ancient authors had spelled out. But these weren’t yet really available alternatives. I mean alternative construals of fullness which could really make sense to people, outside of a few very original spirits. Negatively, it was very hard to see how an exclusive humanism could fill this role, as long as people had an enchanted view of the universe; that is, saw us human beings as in a field of spirits, some of whom were malign. In this respect, of course, science in helping to disenchant the universe, contributed to opening the way for exclusive humanism. A crucial condition for this was a new sense of the self and its place in the cosmos: not open and porous and vulnerable to a world of spirits and powers, but what I want to call “buffered”. But it took more than disenchantment to produce the buffered self; it was also necessary to have confidence in our own powers of moral ordering. But surely, the resources for that were available, in the non-theistic ethics of the pagan ancient world? Only very partially, I believe. First, some of those views also placed us in a larger spiritual or cosmic order. Platonism, Stoicism, for instance. True, they had no necessary truck with magic and wood spirits, but they resisted disenchantment and the mechanistic universe in their own ways. They were not really exclusive humanisms in my sense. I would argue this even for Aristotle, because of the important role for contemplation of a larger order as something divine in us. Where an exclusive humanism was undoubtedly available was in Epicureanism. And it is no surprise that Lucretius was one of the inspirations for explorations in the direction of naturalism, e.g., with Hume. But Epicureanism just as it was couldn’t really do the trick. It could teach us to achieve ataraxia by overcoming our illusions about the Gods. But this wasn’t what was needed for a humanism which could flourish in the modern context. For this was becoming one in which the power to create moral order in one’s life had a rather different shape. It had to include the active capacity to shape and fashion our world, natural and social; and it had to be actuated by some drive to human beneficence. To put this second requirement in a way which refers back to the religious tradition, modern humanism, in addition to being activist and interventionist, had to produce some substitute for agape. All this means that an acceptable form of exclusive humanism had to be imag-

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ined. And this couldn’t be done overnight. Nor could it arise in one leap, but it came to be in a series of phases, emerging out of earlier Christian forms. This is the story I’m going to try to tell. As of the late nineteenth century, indeed, we have fully-formed alternatives which are there before us. And people can be influenced towards one or the other, partly in terms of their views of science—even though, as I shall argue, here too, a crucial role is still played by their moral ontologies. But today, for instance, when a naturalistic materialism is not only on offer, but presents itself as the only view compatible with the most prestigious institution of the modern world, viz., science; it is quite conceivable that one’s doubts about one’s own faith, about one’s ability to be transformed, or one’s sense of how one’s own faith is indeed, childish and inadequate, could mesh with this powerful ideology, and send one off along the path of unbelief, even though with regret and nostalgia. But it is wildly anachronistic to project this very familiar scenario of Victorian times, or today, onto earlier centuries, when the rival outlooks between which we hesitate today were still being forged.

2 My opening question stated a contrast, between the conditions of belief in 1500 and 2000. And then I talked about the story I want to tell to clarify this contrast. But why tell a story? Why not just extract the analytic contrast, state what things were like then, and how they are now, and let the linking narrative go? Who needs all this detail, this history? Haven’t I already made a satisfactory start on such an analytic contrast in identifying the three ways of God’s presence then which have faded by now? Now in a way, the ultimate goal is to arrive at such a contrast, or at least to get into focus our situation in 2000 by means of such a comparative description. But I don’t think it can properly be done if one tries to elide the history. I hope the reasons for this will become clearer and more convincing as I proceed. But just to give the general shape of them here: it is a crucial fact of our present spiritual predicament that it is historical; that is, our understanding of ourselves and where we stand is partly defined by our sense of having come to where we are, of having overcome a previous condition. Thus we are widely aware of living in a “disenchanted” universe; and our use of this word bespeaks our sense that it was once enchanted. More, we are not only aware that it used to be so, but also that it was a struggle and an achievement to get to where we are; and that in some respects this achievement is fragile. We know this because each one of us as we grew up has had to take on the disciplines of disenchantment, and we regularly reproach each other for our failings in this regard, and accuse each other of “magical” thinking, of indulging in “myth”,

the bu lwarks of belief

29

of giving way to “fantasy”; we say that X isn’t living in our century, that Y has a “mediaeval” mind, while Z, whom we admire, is way ahead of her time. In other words, our sense of where we are is crucially defined in part by a story of how we got there. In that sense, there is an inescapable (though often negative) God-reference in the very nature of our secular age. And just because we describe where we are in relating the journey, we can misdescribe it grievously by misidentifying the itinerary. This is what the “subtraction” accounts of modernity have in fact done. To get straight where we are, we have to go back and tell the story properly. Our past is sedimented in our present, and we are doomed to misidentify ourselves, as long as we can’t do justice to where we come from. This is why the narrative is not an optional extra, why I believe that I have to tell a story here. That enlarges the task, potentially without limit. The story of what happened in the secularization of Western Christendom is so broad, and so multi-faceted, that one could write several books this length and still not do justice to it. This is the more so, in that my chosen area, Latin Christendom, is not homogeneous. As we will see below, there is more than one path here, and different nations and regions have trodden their own way at different speeds and times. I can only give the barest bones of the story, and touch on some of the major transitions. My hope is that a general picture of the dynamic involved will emerge from this skeleton account. But some such diachronic account is indispensable.

3 Telling the story can’t be elided; but it isn’t sufficient of itself. In fact, the whole discussion has to tack back and forth between the analytical and the historical. And at this point I want to start by laying out some broad features of the contrast between then and now, which will be filled in and enriched by the story. They fall in the range of the three big negative changes I alluded to above, but I’ll be proceeding from last to first, and in fact I want to mention five changes. The first is disenchantment, the undoing of obstacle 3 above to unbelief (I). Then entering the terrain of obstacle 2 (II), I want also to look at the way in which earlier society held certain profound tensions in equilibrium (III). This in turn was linked to a common understanding of time, which has since been done away with (IV). And lastly, I want to deal with the erosion of obstacle 1, in the way in which the old idea of cosmos has been replaced by the modern neutral universe (V). I. Let me start with the enchanted world, the world of spirits, demons, moral forces which our predecessors acknowledged. The process of disenchantment is the disappearance of this world, and the substitution of what we live today: a world in