Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Sam Han
The Theology of the Collective: Generative Violence, Religion and Social Order
Introduction
It has been quite some time, 70 years or so, since the first meetings of the College de
Sociologie in Paris, which included many of France’s intellectual luminaries of the
interwar period such as Georges Bataille (its main broker and public face), Walter
Benjamin, Jean Wahl, Roger Caillois, Alexandre Kojeve, among others. It was here
that a bizarre field—especially by the present day academy’s scientistic standards—
known as “sacred sociology” first emerged as a research programme, only to quickly
dissolve into the swath of intellectual traditions past. For many of us, who have been
socialized into discrete disciplinary boundaries, “sacred sociology” seems ridiculous.
But in spite of this awkward label, a sociology of “the sacred” as a legitimate
subfield of inquiring a conceptual category has not been advanced since the days of
the College. Further, the discipline of sociology in the United States has not even
been ambivalent about this tradition. It has knowingly ignored it. There has been
only one academic study of the College in English, written not by a sociologist but by
a scholar of French studies.1
There have been at least two identifiable reasons. The first is quite obvious.
Very few, if any, of the members of the College were proper sociologists. The other,
and more significant, is that the more “proper” field of “religion” has superseded
1 Richman, Michèle H., "Sacred Revolutions Durkheim and the Collège De
Sociologie." 2002. University of Minnesota Press.
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“the sacred.”2 Hence, a major drawback of the latter has been a sociology of religion
that is uninformed by theology, accounting for its inability to deal with religious
phenomena on its own terms. Today, the sociology of religion is filled with ration‐
choice theory and ethnographic work, a stark contrast from the theoretical work
produced in the recent past by Berger and Luckmann, Bellah, and others. It has all
but forgotten the primary interest of the mature‐Durkheim, one of the discipline’s
founding fathers, who saw the crucial link between religion and social theory—the
significance of the sacred in creating the social.
This has resulted in sociology’s lackluster response to issues of violence as
well, and especially religious violence, a topic of growing importance given the level
public discourse surrounding global religious extremism.3 This may also account for
the late reception of the work of Italian political philosopher Giorgio Agamben,
particularly his Homo Sacer,4 which has inspired scholars across several disciplines
to take stock once again the concept of sovereign power. It is in the unlikely place of
Agamben’s critique of Foucault’s later writings, that “the sacred” as an object of
theoretical investigation makes its resurgence in contemporary theory.
2 A notable exception is the work of Michael Taussig. See Michael T. Taussig,
Mimesis and Alterity : A Particular History of the Senses (New York: Routlege,
1993).
3 The most obvious exception is the work of Mark Juergensmeyer. See Mark
Juergensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God : The Global Rise of Religious Violence,
Comparative Studies in Religion and Society 13, 3rd ed. (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2003).
4 Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer : Sovereign Power and Bare Life, Meridian
(Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998).
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“Homo sacer” (sacred man) is a concept from Roman law, which defines it as
a man “who may be killed and yet not sacrificed.” Agamben suggests that it still
plays a crucial role in contemporary politics. As he writes,
An obscure figure of archaic Roman law, in which human life is included in
the juridical order [ordinamento] solely in the form of its exclusion (that is, of
its capacity to be killed), has thus offered the key by which not only the
sacred tests of sovereignty but also the very codes of political power will
unveil their mysteries. At the same time, however, this ancient meaning of
the term sacer presents us with the enigma of a figure of the sacred that,
before or beyond the religious, constitutes the first paradigm of the political
realm of the West.5
Hence, while many scholars have spoken of the “turn to religion” in continental
philosophy,6 it may be time for a turn to “the sacred” but not to return to the hazy
pseudo‐mysticism of the College but to see what “the sacred” can still do for
contemporary understandings of the nexus of religion and violence. Therefore, my
interest in Agamben is not so much about biopolitics but about sacred violence,
especially in the Abrahamic religions or what are alternatively called the religions of
the Book, which, at least in their public personae, are against human suffering
(which, one would assume includes violence). However, in light of recent historical
events, it is impossible to ignore the violence that has been perpetrated on behalf of
religion—whether the violence is in the name of the religion of American‐style
democracy or fundamentalist monotheisms of all kinds. Consequently, there have
been many recent efforts to critique religion‐itself based on a rather superficial
5 Ibid. 12. Emphasis mine.
6 Hent de Vries, Philosophy and the Turn to Religion (Baltimore, Md. ; London: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1999).
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reading of religious texts, linking it mostly to acts of violence.7 Christopher Hitchens
has even coined a term that has pervaded much political news media—“Islamo‐
Fascism.” What these writings miss, as Terry Eagleton has noted consistently, is not
only any semblance of theological rigor,8 but also they falsely associate all violence
with religion, failing to see its role in many forms of social order, an idea that did not
go unnoticed by Max Weber, who famously stated that the State was any apparatus
with the ability to use violence legitimately.
Girard, for some reason, has not received the same level attention, as has
Schmitt in recent years. There are two observable reasons. On the one hand, Girard
is a self‐proclaimed Christian. Hence, his writings are sometimes received—unfairly
in my mind—as religious, or even theological, thus dismissed rather hastily by
political theorists and scholars of religion. On the other, and more substantively,
Girard maintains the category of the sacred, which as I mentioned earlier, has been
out of fashion in the study of religion.
The aim of the present essay is to look into the place of violence in religion,
especially Christianity (though there will be various references to Islam, since it has
been the primary target of rather reductive attacks on its supposed theologically
sanctioned violence—the widely misunderstood notion of “jihad”). I will focus on
the work of Rene Girard, whose work, though with a clear Christian bent, is
important when attempting to forge a social theory of violence that bridges the
realms of the political and the religious without necessarily, like Agamben has, going
7 Christopher Hitchens, God Is Not Great : How Religion Poisons Everything, 1st ed.
(New York: 12/Warner Books, 2007).
8 Terry Eagleton, "Lunging, Flailing, Mispunching," The New York Review of Books
28.20 (2006).
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to Carl Schmitt’s work. Specifically, Girard’s work illuminates the dynamics of what
I’m calling the “theology of the collective,” by which I mean to refer to the way in
which violence, in his formulation, works to institute a collective of some sort. Thus,
Girard’s work allows for insight into the function of violence in the modern social
order more broadly.
Violence and Social Order
Girard has been one of the few scholars who have dealt with the themes of violence
and the sacred in a consistent fashion throughout several works, the most obvious
being Violence and the Sacred,9 but also in Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the
World10 and The Scapegoat,11 not to mention numerous articles. From the outset, we
must be clear that Girard’s project is what he calls “demystificiation.”
There are some clear themes that run through the entire gamut of Girard’s
work in this field. One, which is quite basic, though crucial, is that the sacred cannot
be dissociated with violence. This fundamental link is crucial when attempting to
understand what function violence serves in the founding of not only the sacred but
also it conceptual twin—the profane. For Girard, violence is always ontological, that
is to say, it is constitutive of the social. It is the link between violence and the
ordering of social formations that reveals most evidently Girard’s intellectual debt
to Durkheim, who famously saw God (and religion more generally) as the
9 René Girard and Patrick Gregory, Violence and the Sacred, Continuum Impacts
(London: Continuum, 2005).
10 René Girard, Jean‐Michel Oughourlian, Guy Lefort and Stephen Bann, Things
Hidden since the Foundation of the World (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
1987).
11 René Girard, The Scapegoat (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986).
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apotheosis of society. But it would be wrong to label Girard as simply a
Durkheimian, as the basis of his theory of violence (which, to clarify, does not even
play a minor role in Durkheim’s social theory) is grounded in his formulation of
mimesis and dedifferentiation.12
According to Girard, violence is “the process itself when two or more
partners try to prevent one another from appropriating the object they all desire
through physical or other means.”13 Mimicry or imitation comes not from the
repetition of an originary one following the other, but rather an effect of a kind of
“State of Nature” scenario in which two or more entities share the same object of
desire, and begin to pursue the object, provoking a permanent tension, now‐hidden,
now‐open between the “mimemtic twins.” The function of religion, specifically
rituals, is to prevent the rivalry that is at the heart of mimesis through a systematic
performance of a prior, actual violent event; in other words, to keep the social order
from disintegrating into discord. The ritual in this instance consists of violence,
which in most cases, would contribute towards dissolution of the social bond and
work to undermine the social order, as in the case of military invasion or the terror
of a serial killer. Sanctioned violence, as mentioned earlier in the discussion of
Agamben, transforms from a violation of communal rules into a crucial ritual that
very foundation of social cohesion, in the form of sacrifice. Girard insists on the
actuality of this historical event, and disagrees with Levi‐Strauss, for example, who
insisted that ritual develops out of an originary myth. Thus:
12 Rene Girard, "Interview: Rene Girard," Diacritics 8.1 (1978).
13 “Mimesis and Violence” in René Girard and James G. Williams, The Girard Reader
(New York: Crossroad, 1996). 9.
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Mimetic rivalry is the common denominator, in my opinion, of what happens
in seasonal festivals, of the so‐called ordeal undergone by the future initiates
in many initiation rituals, as well as of the social breakdown that may follow
the death of the sacred king or accompany his enthronement and
rejuvenation rituals. 14
Here we see the indebtedness to Durkheim rather clearly. Durkheim viewed the
regulating and moderating principle of the neo‐Rousseauan category of the “social
bond” as the key means to maintain social order and thus to prevent anomie. As the
later Durkheim (in his collaborative work with Marcel Mauss) notes, the social bond
can only be instituted through what Durkheim refers to as conscience collective,
which in French holds both connotations—collective consciousness and collective
conscience. Ritual violence, or sacrifice, then, is the forging of a collective—in both
conscience and consciousness, and therefore remains at the heart of the production
of collectivization.
Sacrifice stands in the same relationship to the ritual crisis that precedes it
as the death or expulsion of the hero to the undifferentiated chaos that
prevails at the beginning of many myths. Real or symbolic, sacrifice is
primarily a collective action of the entire community, which purifies itself of
its own disorder through the unanimous immolation of a victim, but this can
happen only at the paroxysm of the ritual crisis . . . Sacrifice is the resolution
and conclusion of a ritual because a collective murder or expulsion resolves
the mimetic crisis that ritual mimics. 15
This conflicted nature of sacrifice is one of reasons for, what Girard describes
as, “the scapegoat effect.” The scapegoat effect is the solution for the double bind
that mimetic violence induces in a group, as the imitation of the imitator results in
an infinite feedback loop of competition towards the desired object.
As this feedback process keeps reinforcing itself, each constitutes in the
other’s path a more and more irritating obstacle and each tries to remove
14 Ibid., 11.
15 Ibid., 11.
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this obstacle more and more forcefully. Violence is thus generated . . .
Violence is mimetic rivalry itself becoming violent as the antagonists who
desire the same object keep thwarting each other and desiring the object all
the more.16
To avoid the widespread of the violence of mimetic rivalry, another violence must
replace it, and on a third party—the “scapegoat” or “surrogate victim.” The
introduction of the “scapegoat” allows for a what I would like to consider more so as
“collectivization” for the former mimetic rivals, and “ultimately unitive, or rather
reunitive since it provides the antagonists with an object they can really share, in
the sense that they can all rush against that victim in order to destroy it or drive it
away.”17 What the scapegoat allows for the former rivals to do is to come together
and form a community. As Girard readily admits, this usage of “scapegoat” is very
close to its colloquial use.
There is, however, a twist: the scapegoaters, according to Girard, produce a
narrative or myth that obscures this very process of redirecting (perhaps
sublimating, in the psychoanalytic sense) surrogate victimization, a tendency that is
evident throughout the Old Testament most clearly. The violence that is at the origin
of the group formation is “auto‐deconstructed” as Jacques Derrida (and Gil Anidjar
following him) has put it, with regard to Christianity’s relationship with the concept
of religion, where somehow Christianity becomes acceptable in Euro‐American
secular society, and is the exception to the rule of church‐state separation, whereas
16 Ibid., 12‐13.
17 Ibid. 13.
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Islam and Judaism are given “real” religions (and thus must be kept outside the
purview of the public).18
Hence, the difference between a mere scapegoat ritual and scapegoat effect is
quite important. The former would be characterized by an acknowledgement of
scapegoating by the community. The latter is radically different, characterized by
self‐denunciation.
Scapegoating has never been conceived by anyone as an activity in which he
himself participates and may still be participating even as he denounces the
scapegoating of others. Such denunciation can even become a precondition of
successful scapegoating in a world like ours, where knowledge of the
phenomenon is on the rise and makes its grossest and most violent forms
obsolete. Scapegoating can continue only if its victims are perceived
primarily as scapegoaters.19
Due to this mechanism of self‐erasure of the place of violence, especially in a
religion like Christianity, it is difficult to see how violence is generative, and its
significance in for theology, but for collective (religious) identity. But Girard, as a
Christian, sees a clear method by means to decipher the scapegoat effect in Biblical
text. The figure of Chance, in the case of the famous story of Jonah, is usually
endowed with divine Will.
What we see here is a reflection of the sacrificial crisis and its resolution. The
victim is chosen by lot; his expulsion saves the community, as represented by
the ship’s crew; and a new god is acknowledged through the crew’s sacrifice
to the Lord whom they did not know before. Taken in isolation this story tells
us little, but when seen against the backdrop of our whole discussion, each
detail acquires significance.20
18 The frequent attempts by the government of France to ban the burqa is but one
instance among many found where Islam is given the
19 “Mimesis and Violence” in Girard and Williams, The Girard Reader. 15.
20 “The Surrogate Victim,” in Girard and Williams, The Girard Reader. 25.
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Girard does not stop there, however. He goes on to provide a brief yet telling
definition of religion: “Any phenomenon associated with the acts of remembering,
commemorating, and perpetuating a unanimity that springs from the murder of a
surrogate victim.”21 Revealing the “victimage mechanism” is a Christian project of
“demythification” for Girard. By studying the process of sacrifice that is hidden
within Christianity, Girard is attempting to forge a new theology, one based not on
Jesus as ultimate sacrifice for the sins of humanity but one grounded in Revelation
of the Spirit.
For Girard, a violent crisis occurs at the beginning of the formation of the
social in order to institute hierarchies and differences, and values before which was
a rather Hobbesian world of conflictual undifferentiation, characterized by mimetic
violence stemming from competitive desire of the same object. The scapegoat
Sacrifice as Generative Violence
The scapegoat, much like the homo sacer, embodies a rather unusual contradiction:
it is at once sacred and yet dispensable. This is, as Girard reminds us, the case with
sacrifice generally: it is the making sacred via extermination. Sacrifice cannot be
seen as violent by the group, and must, as Girard writes, “fade from view.” This is the
principle of sacrificial substitution, which replaces the violence of sacrifice with
another narrative to explain it.
Once we have focused attention on the sacrificial victim, the object originally
singled out for violence fades from view. Sacrificial substitution implies a
degree of misunderstanding. Its vitality as an institution depends on its ability
to conceal the displacement upon which the rite is based. It must never lose
21 Ibid. 26‐27.
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sight entirely, however, of the original object, or cease to be aware of the act of
transference from that object to the surrogate victim; without that awareness
no substitution can take place and the sacrifice loses all efficacy . . . The
narrative does not refer directly to the strange deception underlying the
sacrificial substitution, nor does it allow this deception to pass entirely
unnoticed. Rather, it mixes the act of substitution with another act of
substitution, permitting us a fleeting, sidelong glimpse of the process. The
narrative itself, the, might be said to partake of a sacrificial quality; it claims
to reveal once act of substitution while employing this first substitution to
half conceal another. There is reason to believe that the narrative touches
upon the mythic origins of the sacrificial system.22
The “misunderstanding” or “substitution” that Girard speaks of is crucial
then for the maintenance of social harmony. But, as he notes, there cannot be a full
rejection of the violent act or the sacrifice, at the risk of losing its efficacy. Thus, the
necessary violence of sacrifice is attributed to God and divine will. God or divine
will personified in Chance (as in the case of Jonah) becomes the substitute par
excellence for the social itself, which according to Girard craves violence. Here we
see a parallel to Durkheim’s famed thesis of God as the “apotheosis of society.”
Whereas Durkheim saw the social as ontologically privileged over God, Girard views
the social as responsible for the attribution of violence to God. There is, however, a
key difference despite the affinity between Girard and Durkheim’s privileging of the
social. For Girard, to attribute the ritual of violence to the social is to show that God
as the source (spiritual or otherwise) of violence is misguided. This theological
explanation is one of the main proponents of the misunderstanding of collective
violence. God is not one who craves sacrifice, according to Girard. Thus, the sacrifice
of the surrogate victim is not to appease a deity but the people, whose “internal
violence—all the dissertations, rivalries, jealousies, and quarrels within the
22 Ibid. 75.
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community” that require suppression. But “suppression,” in the sense that Girard
uses it, is not the elimination of violence as such but along the lines of what Freudian
“repression” is something must only be diverted and rerouted. Thus the community,
not by a bloodthirsty God, seeks after the victim.
The victim is not a substitution for some particularly endangered individual,
nor is it offered up to some individual of particularly bloodthirsty
temperament. Rather, it is a substitute for all the members of the community,
offered up by the members themselves. The sacrifice serves to protect the
entire community from its own violence; it prompts the entire community to
choose victims outside itself. The elements of dissension scattered
throughout the community are drawn to the person of the sacrificial victim
and eliminated, at least temporarily, by its sacrifice.23
Further, Girard argues that the figure of Christ undermines the idea of a
vengeful God. “In order to show once and for all,” Girard writes, “that human culture
is rooted in misunderstood scapegoating, Jesus becomes the willing scapegoat of the
crowd, and he, too, is mistake for a culprit by his persecutors.”24 Thus, Girard, as
mentioned earlier, is interested in pursuing a “demystification” or
“demythologization” as a project. He writes:
Scapegoat demythologization alone is real. The biblical text alone carries it to
its extreme conclusion. This is a harsh doctrine, no doubt, and it will take
more time, more cultural disintegration for la modernite to take it seriously
at all. The signifier is visibly playing against all of us, this time, and the irony
is unbearable. Our most cherished beliefs are threatened. As the evidence of
what I say becomes compelling, attempts will be made to re‐arrange it in a
manner more compatible with the self‐esteem of an intelligentsia whose sole
common ground and binding theme—religio—has become the systematic
expulsion of everything biblical, our last sacrificial operation in the grand
manner.25
23 Ibid. 77.
24 René Girard, "The First Stone," Renascence 52.1 (1999). 16.
25 Girard, "Interview: Rene Girard." 52.
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In other words, by rejecting the theological basis of sacrifice, Girard hopes to reveal
the interimpliction of violence at the heart of any social formation. By doing so, he
suggests that religious violence is not a by‐product of a monotheistic command for
violent sacrifice, but rather an unwitting substitution of mob violence that works to
“resolve” social conflict.
The Continuity of Generative Violence
For Girard, violence is a generative force, one that catalyzes a community (religious
or otherwise) to resolve existing social discord. It is, as he calls it, the “reunitive
principle” of surrogate victimage. While his insight into the place of the religious
nature of violence in the institution of social order is innovative and useful, Girard is
not the first to argue a connection. This tradition in classical political theory goes as
far back as Hobbes, Boulainviliers and Clausewitz—three figures that Michel
Foucault has recently begun to explore in Society Must Be Defended.26 For Foucault
too, violence is an ordering force but not without some nuanced differences with
Girard, which are helpful to us when considering the temporal aspect of violence in
the collective life of religious communities and social formations more generally.
The value of reading Girard with the late‐Foucault is the emphasis that the
latter places on the continual necessity of violence, which he rightly calls “warfare,”
for the institution of any given social order. Social order, in its modern ideal type, as
normative and dominating, according to Foucault, is grounded in a continual
26 Michel Foucault, Mauro Bertani, Alessandro Fontana, François Ewald and David
Macey, Society Must Be Defended : Lectures at the Collège De France, 1975‐76, 1st
ed. (New York: Picador, 2003).
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warfare against specific populations deemed as posing a viral threat to the health of
the society; thus, “society must be defended.” Hence, the basis of the limit case par
excellence, the Shoah, was an anti‐Semitic ideology rooted in terms of the health of
the German volk. The logic reads: “We must eliminate these people. They are a
disease on German society.” But to view Girard alongside Foucault is of import not
only to compare and contrast their views on violence and social order but to see
why it is that Girard characterizes religious violence as “surrogate victimage” as
opposed to “warfare,” as sociologist Mark Juergensmeyer and writer Reza Aslan
have done in what they have called “cosmic war” in order to highlight the constant
nature of violence.
The stakes are clear in such a reading. By supplementing Girard’s theory of
religious violence, we are de‐privileging the (mythologized or historical) originary
moment of sacrifice to explain subsequent violence. Focused on the specific
formation of the State, Foucault writes, “It is not just a war that we find behind
order, behind peace, and beneath the law. It is not a war that presides over the birth
of the great automaton which constitutes the State, the sovereign, or Leviathan.” It is
a generalized war—the infamous “war of all against all”—that even precedes the
State but is later incorporated within it after its establishment. The state of war is a
sort of unending diplomacy between rivals who are naturally equal. We are not at
war as opposed to peace but we are in what Hobbes specifically calls a “state of
war,”27 a phrase which Foucault could have easily amended to “State of war,” that is
to say, war is the normative state of all States. “War,” writes Foucault, “is the motor
27 Ibid. 92.
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behind institutions and order. In the smallest of its cogs, peace is waging a secret
war. To put it another way, we have to interpret the war that is going on beneath
peace; peace itself is a coded war.”28
Similarly, Reza Aslan, in his recently published How to Win a Cosmic War,29
has also detailed the sacrificial function of violence in religious war as necessarily
constant and continuous. He frames it in terms of “cosmic war” a concept developed
by Mark Juergensmeyer.
It is a conflict in which God is believed to be directly engaged on one side
over the other. Unlike a holy war—an earthly battle between rival religious
groups—a cosmic war is like a ritual drama in which participants act out on
earth a battle they believe is actually taking place in the heavens. It is, in
other words, both a real, physical struggle in this world and an imagined,
moral encounter in the world beyond. The conflict may be real and the
carnage material, but the war itself is being waged on a spiritual plane; we
humans are merely actors in a divine script written by God . . . It turns
victims into sacrifices and justifies the most depraved acts of destruction
because it does not abide by human conceptions of morality.30
The key to “cosmic war” is the dualism that it produces. “A cosmic war,” Aslan
writes,
. . . partitions the world into black and white, good and evil, us and them. In
such a war, there is no middle ground; everyone must choose a side. Soldier
and civilian, combatant and noncombatant, aggressor and bystander—all the
traditional divisions that serve as markers in a real war break down in
cosmic wars. It is a simple equation: if you are not us, you must be them. If
you are them, you are the enemy and must be destined.31
As Aslan notes, in addition to its hard bifurcation of the WE from the THEY, a cosmic
war is one that, by design, cannot be won. It is unwinnable because its main effect is
the forging of collectives, which in the framework of Aslan’s interests, can take on
28 Ibid. 50.
29 Reza Aslan, How to Win a Cosmic War : God, Globalization, and the End of the War
on Terror, 1st ed. (New York: Random House, 2009).
30 Ibid. 5.
31 Ibid. 5.
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global proportions. Therefore, the collective begins to take on a theological basis.
Following Robert Bellah’s formulation of “civil religion,” Aslan writes:
The cosmic duality has served American politicians well, particularly, in
times of conflict and war. During World War I, the Committee on Public
Information was tasked by the U.S. government with convincing Americans
that the war was being waged ‘by the saints against unmitigated evil’ and
that the ‘Huns’—by which the Committee meant the Germans—‘were the
very creatures of Satan, completely devoid of human compassion and totally
committed to wrecking the free world.’32
Cosmic war has a two‐fold consequence for religious communities. On the
one hand, it provides a larger scope for religious warfare, thus a greater spatial
horizon for religious warfare to take place, hence Jihadism’s explicitly transnational
and this‐worldly disposition. As Juergensmeyer describes in a specifically
Christianist context, it is “the perception that the secular social and political order of
America is caught up in satanic conspiracies of spiritual and personal control.”33 On
the other hand, it provides a continual deference of victory, allowing for war to be
constant, a never‐ending battle against the infidels. It is the latter characteristic that
the constancy of warfare that “cosmic war” shares with Foucault’s reading of
classical political theory. The perspective of Foucault, Juergensmeyer and Aslan
provides a critical corrective to Girard’s theory. While accounting for the sporadic
nature of the violence by likening it to a “festival,” he ultimately privileges the “first”
violent act, which sanctifies subsequent acts of violence.
32 Aslan, How to Win a Cosmic War : God, Globalization, and the End of the War on
Terror. 85.
33 Mark Juergensmeyer, "Christian Violence in America," Annals of the American
Academy of Political and Social Science 558 (1998).
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Conclusion
Living in a globalized world in which news of popular protest in defense of a “truer”
religious democracy and a major Western European democracy calling for the
banning of religious headscarf, just two examples among many, is indications that
religion must be reconsidered by contemporary scholarship and journalism alike. As
reductive phrases such as “Islamo‐Fascism” and “Islamic Fundamentalism” continue
to be used in mainstream media, it becomes an ever more important task to remain
vigilant about the complexities of religious violence, especially for the West, whose
self‐congratulatory secularism is called into question as reproductive health clinics
are bombed and doctors murdered.
Crucially, for Rene Girard, by placing the logic of mob violence within the
mechanisms of social formation and social order, it fulfills the project of the
demythification of God as a violent figure. The continuity of generative violence in
religious communities and social formations more broadly reveal the violent nature
of social order in modernity. Not only does religious violence undermine its peaceful
self‐image as evolved from prior traditional (read: more violent) eras (one of which
is the infamous “Dark Ages”), but it also challenges the supposed secularity of the
present historical moment. In effect, Girard’s theory of sacred violence is basically
that it is not sacred at all. It has been viewed as such due to the sanctification of a
process of a horrendous scapegoating in which a specific population of a given
society is pinned as detrimental—even a biological threat—to the health of the
society.
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Ultimately, the casting of violence upon all religion regardless of specific
theological evolutions and differences make for a secular, liberal modernity to be
some how absolved from the blood thirst that Hitchens and others have projected
onto religion. But is not the “essential violence,” as Alain Badiou puts it, of the 20th
century, which Zygmunt Bauman in parallel fashion described as “the logic of
modernity,” enough evidence that the secular democracy so lauded by liberals of all
religious stripes is indeed violent itself?
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DRAFT ONLY
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