Religious Roots of Contemporary European Identity

The Religious Roots of Contemporary European Identity

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The Religious Roots of Contemporary European Identity

edited by Lucia Faltin and Melanie J. Wright

continum

Continuum International Publishing Group The Tower Building, 11 York Road, London SEI TNX 80 Maiden Lane, Suite 704, New York, NY 10038 www. continuumbooks. com First published 2007 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Copyright © Lucia Faltin, Melanie J. Wright and contributors, 2007 British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Typeset by Data Standards Ltd, Frome, Somerset, UK. Printed on acid-free paper in Great Britain by Biddies Ltd, King's Lynn, Norfolk ISBN-10: HB: 0-S264-9482-X ISBN-13: HB: 978-0-8264-9482-5

Contents NOTES ON THE CONTRIBUTORS FOREWORD BY JAN FIGEL' ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS INTRODUCTION: THE RELIGIOUS ROOTS OF CONTEMPORARY EUROPEAN IDENTITY LUCIA FALTIN

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DOES ISLAM CHALLENGE EUROPEAN IDENTITY? SARA SILVESTRI

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RE-VIEWING MY SON THE FANATIC (UDAYAN PRASAD, 1997) AFTER 7/7; OR, ROOTS, ROUTES, AND RHIZOMES MELANTE J. WRIGHT

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ONLY CONNECT: A CASE STUDY OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH AND THE NON-CATHOLIC CULTS IN THE FLORENCE OF THE RlSORGIMENTO

PENNY MITTLER

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AT THE EUROPEAN ROOTS OF THE INTERRELIGIOUS DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTIAN ORTHODOXY AND JUDAISM: HISTORY, THE STUDY OF IMAGES, AND MODERNITY PHILIPPE GARDETTE

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HISTORICAL MEMORY: BLESSING OR BURDEN? RUSSIAN ORTHODOX CHRISTIANS IN THE MODERN WORLD IRINA LEVINSKAYA

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THE RUSSIAN ORTHODOX CHURCH AND THE EUROPEAN UNION: CONSTRUCTING A RUSSIAN ORTHODOX IDENTITY IN EUROPE GRANT S. WHITE

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THE IMPACT OF PosT-1989 CHANGES ON POLISH-JEWISH RELATIONS AND PERCEPTIONS: MEMORIES AND DEBATES SLAWOMIR KAPRALSKI

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MEMORY AND Civic EDUCATION: HOLOCAUST AND COMING TO TERMS WITH NATIONAL HISTORY 105 JOLANTA AMBROSEWICZ-JACOBS THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH IN POLAND AND THE DYNAMICS OF SOCIAL IDENTITY IN POLISH SOCIETY 117 ZDZISLAW MACH THE 'EUROPE OF CITIZENS' VIS-À-VIS THE 'EUROPE OF NATION STATES' MILAN LYČKA

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THE RELIGIOUS SOCIETY OF CZECH UNITARIANS (RSCU) AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF CZECH NATIONAL IDENTITY ANDREW JAMES BROWN

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POPE BENEDICT XVI, EUROPE AND INTERRELIGIOUS DIALOGUE: A THEOLOGICAL CONTRIBUTION PATRICK MORROW

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THE QUARREL OVER THE RELIGIOUS ROOTS OF EUROPEAN IDENTITY IN THE EUROPEAN CONSTITUTION AND THE NATURE OF HISTORICAL EXPLANATION: A CATHOLIC COIGN OF VANTAGE PAUL E. KERRY

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TOWARDS THE PHILOSOPHY OF INTERRELIGIOUS DIALOGUE STANISLAW KRAJEWSKI

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AFTERWORD: How SECULAR Is EUROPE TODAY? TOMÁS HALÍK

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BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX

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Notes on the Contributors Jolanta Ambrosewicz-Jacobs is Head of the Section for Holocaust Studies and the Section for Social Conflict Studies at the Institute of European Studies in Krakow of the Jagiellonian University and academic advisor at the International Centre of Education about Auschwitz and Holocaust at the State Museum Auschwitz-Birkenau. She is also member of OSCE/ODIHR Advisory Council of the Panel of Experts on Freedom of Religion or Belief. Her publications include: Me Us Them. Ethnic Prejudice and Alternative Methods of Education: The Case of Poland (Universitas, 2003) and Tolerance: How to Teach Oneself and Others [Tolerancja. Jak uczyc siebie i innych] (Villa Decius, 2003, 2004). She is co-editor of the book Why Should We Teach about the Holocaust? (Katedra Judaistyki, 2003; Judaica Foundation, 2004; Jagiellonian University, Institute of European Studies, 2005) and coordinator of the Website Guide Education to Tolerance, in cooperation with the OSCE/ODIHR. Her research and publications focus on evaluation of the effects of education on attitudes, mechanisms of xenophobia and intolerance, antisemitism and intercultural education. Andrew James Brown is the minister of the Memorial Church (Unitarian), Cambridge, and is one of the chaplains to the University, to Anglia Ruskin University and to Cambridge Regional College. His research interests centre on liberal Christianity, its self-identity and relationships with other faith traditions. He is also a musician and has recently contributed entries on Unitarian hymnody to The New Julian Dictionary of Hymnody (ed. J. R. Watson, Canterbury Press/Eerdmans, forthcoming 2007). Lucia Faltin is Director of International Programmes at the Centre for the Study of Jewish-Christian Relations and teaches history of JewishChristian relations at the University of Cambridge. Before moving to the UK from Slovakia, she was co-founder and director of the Centre for European Policy, a think-tank specializing in European integration. Her research interests lay in the role of religion in civic diplomacy and secular society, particularly in constitutional processes. Ján Figel' is Member of the European Commission for Education, Training, Culture and Youth. Prior to this appointment in 2004, he was the chief negotiator for Slovakia's accession to the European Union and then Deputy Foreign Secretary of the Slovak Republic. As a Member of

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the Slovak Parliament, he also served the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe. He has been one of the leaders in the development of Christian Democracy in Slovakia. Philippe Gardette is associate lecturer at the Centre Paul Février at the University of Provence and also works as a primary school teacher. He spent one year at Cambridge University at Trinity College on a Knox studentship and holds a Ph.D. in Byzantine history. His research interests include interreligious dialogue. Tomás Halík holds doctorates in philosophy and theology and is professor of philosophy and sociology of religion at Charles University, Prague, president of the Czech Christian University and Roman Catholic priest in the Academic Parish of Prague, member of the European Academy of Science and the Arts, and an author of several books. His research interests centre on the role of religion in the contemporary world, European cultural identity and interfaith dialogue. He was awarded the Andrew Elias Human Tolerance Award in 2002, 'for outstanding services in disseminating the values of tolerance and spiritual and intellectual freedom', and a Cardinal König Award in 2003. Slawomir Kapralski studied sociology and philosophy at the Jagiellonian University in Krakow, Poland, where he received his MA and Ph.D. He taught at the Jagiellonian University and then joined the Central European University, where he lectured for thirteen years in all three campuses: Prague, Warsaw and Budapest. He has been a visiting scholar at the University of Bielefeld, the University of Chicago, IWM Vienna and WZB Berlin. At present he is a Lecturer at the Warsaw School of Social Psychology and an Associate Professor of Sociology at the Centre for Social Studies of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw. Since the end of the 1980s he has been involved in various educational initiatives in the field of Polish-Jewish relations. His research interests focus on nationalism, ethnicity and identity, collective memory, antisemitism, and the Roma (Gypsies) of East/Central Europe. Paul E. Kerry is Associate Professor of History at Brigham Young University. He has edited volumes on Goethe, Schiller, Carlyle, and Mozart's Magic Flute and published Enlightenment Thought in the Writings of Goethe. He is completing a new book on German intellectual history and is currently an associate editor working on an edition of Carlyle's German Essays for the University of California Press. He has been awarded a Visiting Fellowship at Princeton University for 2007-8. Stanislaw Krajewski is a professor in the Institute of Philosophy of Warsaw University. He is the co-chair of the Polish Council of Christians and Jews and the Polish consultant to the American Jewish Committee. He has written on issues on logic, philosophy of mathematics, philosophy of religion, Judaism, interfaith dialogue and recent Jewish experience in Poland. Among his books are Godel's Theorem and its Philosophical

Notes on the Contributors

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Interpretations: from Mechanism to Post-modernism (Warsaw, 2003, in Polish) and Poland and the Jews: Reflections of a Polish Polish Jew (Krakow, 2005, in English). Irina Levinskaya is a senior research fellow at St Petersburg Institute of History of the Russian Academy of Sciences. She is also a permanent Visiting Scholar of the Faculty of Divinity at Cambridge. She is the author of The Book of Acts in its Diaspora Setting (Eerdmans/Paternoster, 1996) and of a number of Russian books and numerous articles on the New Testament and ancient history. Her main research interest lies in the field of Jewish background of the New Testament and epigraphy. Her recent publications include the second volume of Commentaries on the Book of Acts, chapters 9-28 (in Russian, due 2007) and the book by S. Luria, Antisemitism in the Ancient World (1922) with introduction and commentaries (in Russian, Gesharim, due 2007). She is also editor of the political journal Bar'er aimed to combat nationalism and fascism in modern Russia. She is a member of St Petersburg PEN-club. Milan Lyčka is assistant professor at the Institute of Philosophy and Religious Studies in the Faculty of Arts, Charles University, Prague. His main research and teaching interests lie in philosophy and phenomenology of religion, and Jewish philosophy. Recently he has been the editor-in-chief of focus Pragensis: A Yearbook for the Philosophy and Phenomenology of Religion. Zdzistaw Mach is professor of sociology, social anthropology and European studies, and Director of the Institute of European Studies, Jagiellonian University, Krakow. His main research interests lie in the field of identity construction, ethnic relations, national identity and nationalism, migration, symbols in politics, local community government and European integration. His publications include Symbols, Conflict and Identity (SUNY Press, 1993) and Niechciane Miasta (Universitas, 1998). Penny Mittler took her Master's Degree from the Centre for the Study of Jewish-Christian Relations in 2003 with a dissertation on The Jews in St John's Gospel. She is a part-time distance-learning tutor for the Centre and in early 2007 led a study module on Citizenship and Interfaith Relations for CJCR in Greater Manchester as part of the Centre's new Flexible-Interfaith Programme. She is the archivist of St Mark's English Church in Florence and is currently researching its history with a view to publication in 2008. She has previous publications in the field of special needs education. Patrick Morrow is a Christian priest in the Church of England, serving his curacy in Lincoln. He has an M.Phil, in Ecumenics from the Irish School of Ecumenics and Trinity College Dublin, and an MA in JewishChristian Relations from CJCR, Cambridge. For his work for the latter, he was granted the Sigmund Sternberg Award in 2005, as most promising student in the year. He is active in the Council of Christians and Jews and

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the Lincoln Interfaith Forum. He is currently editing his M.Phil, dissertation, John Hick and the Myth of Radical Pluralism, for publication. He is also a poet, being the first ever Manchester Cathedral Poet of the Year. Sara Silvestri is a lecturer in International Relations and Religion in Global Politics at City University (London). After receiving her Ph.D. (on the institutionalization of Islam in the EU) from Cambridge University, Centre of International Studies, she held an ESRC Post-Doctoral Fellowship at her alma mater until September 2006. She had previously taught Political Islam at Bristol University, EU politics at Cambridge University, worked on intercultural dialogue for the European Commission, and covered religious affairs as a journalist in Rome. Her research and publications range across Islam and Muslim politics and their interplay with global politics, church-state relations, immigration, social cohesion, security, and Euro-Mediterranean relations. As a specialist on these topics she has consulted for the EPC (Brussels) and the British Council (London), and is an associate of the Centre for the Study of Faith in Society, Cambridge University, and of Chatham House, London. Grant S. White is Lecturer in Orthodox Systematic Theology and Patristics in the Faculty of Theology of the University of Joensuu, Joensuu, Finland. From 2004 to 2006 he was Principal of the Institute for Orthodox Christian Studies in Cambridge. His research and writing have focused on asceticism and liturgy in ancient Christianity, the history of Orthodox Christian-Jewish relations, and contemporary Orthodox Christian theology. Melanie J. Wright is a Lecturer in Religious Studies at the Open University. From 1998 to 2007, she served as Academic Director of the Centre for the Study of Jewish-Christian Relations, Cambridge. Her research and teaching interests are reflected in recent publications including Religion and Film: An Introduction (I. B. Tauris, 2007), Understanding Judaism (Orchard Academic, 2003), Moses in America (Oxford University Press, 2002) and the forthcoming Studying Judaism: Critical Issues (Continuum, due 2009).

Foreword Ján Figel' An objective reflection on contemporary European identity is much needed at the present stage of Europe's integration. During the past few months, a lively debate on European identity has emerged; it seems that Europe is engaged in a serious soul-searching exercise, and not a moment too soon. The issues of identity, citizenship, borders, and the cultures of Europe are increasingly discussed in relation to the process of integration. There are several historical reasons for this; let me just point out one. The 2004 enlargement increased the internal diversity of the European Union and brought its eventual borders in sight. Now that we can see what may well become our final geographical limits, the next obvious question is: What is it exactly that these borders encompass? The question is logically unavoidable, as any discourse about borders geographical as well as metaphysical - entails ontological questions. Nevertheless, the political implications are much more important. As a matter of fact, if one can answer questions such as 'What is Europe?' or 'What does it mean to be European?', one will find it easier to answer questions of a political nature, such as 'What do we want the Union to be and do?' These are important questions for Europe's political leaders today, be they national leaders or politicians with the mandate to defend and develop the interests of the Union as a whole. This volume intends to explore the relationship between religion and contemporary European identity, and thus adds a fascinating twist to the wider debate. The countries that have joined the Union over the years have widened the spectrum of its intellectual and political traditions. The enlarged Union is more European by being a more complete community of European states and people. In terms of the relationship between religion and the state, some national traditions are more secular than others. As a consequence, religious issues are inevitably a part of any debate about European identity. Peoples' beliefs and convictions are in the centre of their cultures, as they influence or steer their behaviour and relations. Nonetheless, this should not be used as a means of preempting the debate. We inevitably also need to integrate histories, values and worldviews that reach beyond faith and beliefs. I am convinced that communities of faith and conviction should play an important role in a wider intercultural dialogue. When it comes to imagining a collective identity for the peoples of Europe, we cannot draw many lessons from history; our integration

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process is too recent and too unique. Europe is far more diverse - in real and symbolic terms - than any of its national and sub-national communities. Europe is already very much a multicultural society. The notion of European identity is difficult to define, but it seems to have two dimensions: • an internal dimension that corresponds to the efforts to bring together the countries, regions and peoples of Europe while preserving their diversity; and, • an external dimension that corresponds to the attempt to define ourselves as non-Americans, non-Asians, etc. In both respects we should resist the temptation to define Europe solely in terms of its oppositions. To borrow Zdzislaw Mach's formulation, we should not limit ourselves to asking questions such as: 'Who are we in relation to them?' and 'Who are they in relation to us?' In our quest for Europe's identity, we will never reach crossroads where we have to decide on a particular direction. Europe will always be a pluralist community and one that evolves dynamically over time. This pluralism stems precisely from our diversity. Yet diversity can often be a source of divergence and conflict. My political work over the past decades has taught me that the principles of rationality and goodwill are the best contributions and preconditions at all times. In this respect, there are no such things as irreconcilable differences. This is important to all sorts of dialogue, including that between faiths, and it equally applies to the dialogue between believers and non-believers. Interreligious dialogue should represent a parallel to the wider intercultural dialogue, with a lot of interdependence between the two discourses. People do tend to understand each other's viewpoint, provided they approach it with an open mind. This can be further facilitated with the right conditions. Setting the right conditions for dialogue is the main rationale behind an initiative of the European Commission: the European Year of Intercultural Dialogue. I launched the idea as soon as I was appointed Commissioner for education and culture. My proposal quickly gathered consensus and the plans for the Year are now under way for 2008. The Union currently puts a lot of emphasis on intercultural dialogue, given that the cultural landscape of Europe has been dramatically changing fast over the past few years: • A number of countries - including my native Slovakia - have joined the Union; • European integration has become a reality for thousands of fellow citizens who move across the Union for work, study and leisure; • Globalization has a significant effect on growing exchanges of material and symbolic goods, as well as increased migration around the world. As a result, Europeans today come into contact with different cultures, languages and religions as never before. This holds out tremendous opportunities, but also poses a serious challenge.

Foreword by Ján Figel'

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The European Union's motto is Diversity in unity. Diversity is evidently growing through enlargements and migration. For the sake of cohesion, it is important to deepen the unity at the same time. Real unity is only possible around common values, not geography or the single market. Human dignity, freedom, justice and solidarity are fundamental values important for all of us individually and collectively. We have to promote them in everyday life and decision-making. We think of diversity as a distinctive feature, a source of symbolic and material wealth, and the very foundation of our process of integration. Unfortunately, this attitude has come under strain in the past few years. Our societies have been shaken by violent conflicts. There are worrying signs that racism, xenophobia and intolerance are on the increase again in Europe and other parts of the world. There may be several reasons for this, ranging from cultural disorientation and social exclusion, to simple economic factors. Yet, the common denominator is that people fear and reject the unknown. Ignorance seems to be the main factor, as it breeds intolerance. This is why it is now time to put dialogue between cultures more firmly on the European agenda. If we are serious about forging closer links between the peoples living in Europe, the very first condition is that we get to know each other better. We should raise the awareness among European citizens of the need for intercultural dialogue. Schools have to provide children with, inter alia, better competence in languages, history and culture; they need to educate for mature citizenship and responsibility. We should develop social and personal habits that will make it easier for us to deal with a more open and complex cultural environment. Finally, we also need to create the right conditions to enable people to feel a part of Europe and to understand European citizenship, which belongs to them. The Union is not Brussels: we all are the Union. As I mentioned earlier, interreligious dialogue should be part of this process. I should now add a couple of reasons to those I have already given. First, intolerance should be unacceptable to those who subscribe to a universal system of belief. The main religions in Europe - Christianity, Judaism and Islam - promote unconditional respect for what is essential to humankind. Therefore it should in principle be easy for men and women of faith and goodwill to seek avenues of mutual understanding between peoples and to join forces to fight intolerance and violence. Second, interreligious dialogue can meet the demand for a sense of meaning that comes from society, especially among its most marginalized members. Frequent expressions of hatred towards the other along ethnic, religious, or other lines - are simply the symptom of an empty cultural landscape and an inarticulate sense of self. For dialogue to be significant, it should be based on the acceptance of cultural and religious diversity, a genuine effort to understand others, and on mutual respect. In this perspective, getting to know another culture or religion is like embarking on a voyage. Those who have travelled abroad to discover new territories (terra incognita) know that one always returns to find that the journey has changed them. I regard this as a precondition to any form of dialogue. A real dialogue is more than an exchange of two

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monologues. One plus one can be more than two when understanding or mutual enrichment or sympathy is created. Of course, it takes courage to leave home, because we do not know which parts of ourselves will be different when we return. Any community of faith and conviction that is serious about dialogue will have to reflect on its own attitude before setting sail. With this in mind, it should be perfectly clear that we regard faith communities as essential for our efforts to prevent conflict and social strife, promote peace, support democracy, and uphold human rights. The EU is respectful of all churches and religious communities in their own right and appreciates the good work they do in our societies. For years, the Commission has engaged in dialogue with them. At present, there are over fifty religious organizations represented in Brussels and they meet with the European Commission on a regular basis. In addition, we have many examples of the excellent work that religious organizations carry out, in particular with young people. Some of them have acquired a unique and specific expertise in intercultural dialogue. We are keen to involve faith communities in our efforts, as they bring a wealth of experience and enthusiasm from many committed individuals. The European Year of Intercultural Dialogue will provide a unique opportunity to raise awareness and exchange best practice. We want to ensure that it has a lasting impact and marks the beginning of a long-term process. I hope that all participating organizations, including religious ones, will continue their work long after 2008. Intercultural dialogue will also be nurtured by our community programme (Culture 2007), which continues to run for the next seven years. As I noted earlier, developing a sense of belonging to Europe is among the desirable outcomes of our work on intercultural dialogue. We will help to create the right conditions for people to have a more active sense of European citizenship. Awareness of or further shaping of European identity - whatever form it takes - will always be an open-ended, diverse and pluralist interaction. It will always be a dynamic process rather than something predefined and static. The forces that will drive this process involve respect for diversity, eager curiosity to find out about the ways and beliefs of others, and an effort to build lasting and peaceful relations between different cultures and visions of the world. I am convinced that this lies at the heart of our process of integration and all communities of faith and conviction that are active on the territory of the EU will help us reach these goals. European identity and our community are built on cultural, religious and humanist inheritance. The Judaeo-Christian roots of Europe are the oldest and the boldest ones. They represent an undeniable contribution to European values. Roots are important not only in nature, but equally in society. According to a recent Eurobarometer survey,1 52 per cent of citizens of the current 25 member states believe in God and an additional 27 per cent in a spiritual life or force. Our unity is not defined by geography, business, or the market. We all recall that the founding fathers of the Community were men of deep, active faith. 1 Social Values, Science and Technology', Eurobarometer (special issue) 225.

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Therefore they were strong architects of reconciliation and international relations based on respect for human rights, on the rule of law, not force. This led to European stability, security and prosperity. The European mission is not completed. Upbringing to humanity and solidarity is a permanent task, repetitively needed in every new generation. Every generation must embrace its responsibility for freedom, democracy and community. Enlargement and accession processes continue and are in Europe's best interest. January 2007

Acknowledgements While many of this book's contributors have interacted with one another on a virtual basis over the years, they met for the first time as a group in Cambridge in July 2006. This was made possible by the generous support of the Centre for Research into Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities of the University of Cambridge and Centre for the Study of JewishChristian Relations. Both institutions are committed to the widest possible public engagement in interdisciplinary examination of social issues. Thomas Kraft from Continuum provided patient guidance and support to the editors of this volume from its conception to completion. Maîgorzata Wloszycka and James Aitken provided help with language editing. We wish to dedicate this book to Madge and John Aitken, and Elena and Alex Mlynárcik for their idealism, sober realism and commitment to learning. (Lucia Faltin) And also to Our students, in anticipation of their future contributions. (Melanie J. Wright)

Introduction: The Religious Roots of Contemporary European Identity Lucia Faltin This publication offers a critical examination of some current issues regarding the religious roots of contemporary European identity. It analyses the presence of religion in the development of national and communal identities, the manifestation of religion in secular society, and the role of religion in further European integration. While different metaphors are used for the study of 'roots' in identity formation, there seems to be a consensus in this volume over Europe's identity, which is understood as a complex of dynamically changing multiple identities that interact in vertical and horizontal directions wherever choice is necessitated.1 A. Chronological and thematic contexts The period from 1989 has been marked by a number of major developments relevant to the subject. The fall of communism in Central and Eastern Europe triggered further European unification and two new waves of enlargement of the European Union. The 1990s also brought a resurgence of religious activity that came to play an increasingly overt role in international and inter-communal relations. A growing number of churches and other denominational associations came to the fore in Europe's secular public square. Within the context of European integration, the Roman Catholic Church deserves particular attention not merely in terms of its role in the construction of European unity, but also because of its influential, albeit not always publicly agreeable or accepted, positions on Europe's spiritual heritage. Under the pontificate of John Paul II the Church has been acknowledged to have contributed significantly to Europe's unification. A decade later, after the election of Cardinal Ratzinger to the papacy, the Vatican's preoccupation with Europe has not ceased. This is largely owing to Benedict XVTs outspoken determination to safeguard religious values in Europe's living cultural heritage. This has further fuelled the often controversial debate on the subject in Europe, involving different denominations as well as

1 Lipner 1994 offers another interesting use of metaphor in his study of multiple identities of the Hindus. In reference to multiple identities and their hierarchy, see e.g. Gillespie 1996, 39. 1

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non-believers and secular bodies.2 One of the key moments has been the debate surrounding the preamble to the Treaty Establishing a Constitution for Europe. Arguments have touched on a range of issues, from faith foundations to their relevance in contemporary secular Europe.3 Adherents to the 'foundations' argument tend to be perceived as 'fundamentalists' either by their interlocutors or by the wider public. As such, they come to share the destiny of Karol Wojtyla and Joseph Ratzinger, whose contributions to progress in Europe's cohesion have been generally acknowledged. Yet their emphasis on the foundational values of Europe as a prerequisite to its unity, despite their recognition of its diverse populace, ranked both theologians among 'fundamentalists' with a negative connotation. In a wider context 'fundamentalism' tends to be perceived as a threat to liberal and secular identity. Since the disintegration of the bipolar system of the Cold War era, cultural and religious fundamentalism has arisen among means of establishing ethnic and national identity, and has surfaced in attempts to respond to globalization and European integration. As seen above, it is facile to reduce 'fundamentalism' into simply a negative phenomenon. The same applies to globalization. Two positive effects of globalization that serve as a background to the discussion in this book are the growth of a knowledge-based society4 and the increasing elimination of communication barriers. With these in mind, this book explores to what extent there is scope for a constructive coexistence and inclusiveness in Europe. This requires the empowerment of individuals with composite identities that are directly or indirectly affected by religion.5 The means of empowerment include an adequate knowledge of the foundations and the current state of faith and its organized forms within its social and historical contexts. Such familiarity is one of the essential prerequisites for an informed discourse and a constructive intercultural exchange, if they are to confront effectively the re-emergence of religious, nationalist and other ideological extremisms. The framework of empowerment and freedom would be incomplete without responsibilities that set an additional precondition for social action, such as the transformation of Europe into a more adequate common platform for constructive social interaction.

2 Cf. Silvestri elsewhere in this volume. 3 A number of contributors to this volume address this issue, including the positions of Joseph Ratzinger/Benedict XVI. A comparison of his current works referred to elsewhere in this volume with some of his older writings on themes relevant to this study shows his long-term quest to rethink the absence of spiritual values in Europe's secularism in the context of its unity; see, e.g., Ratzinger 1987,1991. 4 Aitken (2002) discusses some challenges to interfaith education that remain valid; Katzenstein (2006,24r-6) provides a critical overview of issues and schemes in education at the European level. Since the time of his writing, further progress has been made under the leadership of Commissioner Jan Figel', in the development of a common European educational space, which could be the Union's future fourth 'pillar'. 5 Wright (2002) offers a comprehensive reflection on this subject.

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B. Constitution-building in Europe One of the key tasks for the improvement of a common platform is to ensure progress on Europe's constitution, a process in which the Treaty on the European Constitution (hereafter referred to as the Constitution Treaty) is but a building-block. With the failure to adopt the Constitution at the first attempt, it is clear that this process requires the wider engagement of Europe's polity on all levels.6 This undertaking is not merely a matter of debate between policy-makers, their invitation to different interest groups for consultation and an exchange of information through party grass-root channels. The development of the European Constitution in particular and of a constitution for the transformation of Europe in wider terms is an all-embracing process of social interaction.7 The European Constitution presents a need - not just an opportunity for a common quest, a project that calls for responsible participation in public affairs with extensive opportunities for self-expression. Some key decisions will inevitably lie in the hands of policy-makers before they resubmit the document to public scrutiny and approval. Ultimately though, it is the developmental stage of the Constitution, involving the polity rather than its final vote of approval, that can produce a legitimate result with which Europeans would be able to identify. Public engagement in this process cannot be limited to protests - whether peaceful or violent - or electoral expressions.8 A sense of responsibility for public affairs needs to be expressed through a constructive engagement in initiatives. The call for individual responsibility and participation in public affairs should not rest on the shoulders of Europe's political leaders and intellectuals, but needs to be ingrained in the wider strata of society.9 Religious leaders, along with educators and academics are 6 This has been acknowledged and put into action by the German Presidency, and an enhanced consultation process has been under way since autumn 2006. A comparison with referenda on the Maastricht Treaty comes to mind in the context of the destiny of the European Constitution Treaty. Nielsen 1993 in his case study of Denmark and the voting on Maasstricht addresses some key problems in communication between the European institutions and the electorate. 7 Philpott and Shah (2006) show the specific role of religious institutions in the political process with a particular focus on European integration. 8 These types of protest can be closely connected. The Danish cartoon crisis illustrates how easily a non-violent protest can trigger extreme and often violent reactions. A legitimate effort to preserve freedom of expression on the part of the Danes seems to have failed to take into account the possible consequences, moreover at the time of heightened sensitivity over the encounter between the West and Islam. Equally though, it is regrettable that a religious belief - in any religion - would lead its adherents to extreme and violent reaction, including killing. 9 Havel is but one of many examples of such a commitment; his contemplations about individual responsibility towards public affairs can in particular be found in Havel 1983, 1997. For an in-depth comparative analysis of Havel relevant to this volume, see Matustík 1993. An example of the immense influence of some intellectuals on the public assumption of responsibility, combining its religious and secular understanding, is the adaptation to the Slovak conditions in the 1990s of views of the older generation of neoconservatives, such as Michael Novak (e.g. Novak 1996). Daniel Philpott, who is repeatedly referred to in this volume, is an example of an academic frequently leaving the

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among those best placed to facilitate this process not merely in their specific setting, but within the wider context of secular society. The combination of a value-based and practical approach has been the foundation stone for the Union. The recent enlargement has opened up a new era in which such a combination of approaches comes again more significantly to the forefront of further integration efforts. The current European Union was founded as a response to the need to enhance the socio-economic security of post-war Europe. The prominent contribution of Christian Democrats among the 'founding fathers' has brought valuebased principles into a liberalistic realm of thought and practice in socioeconomic interaction and constitution.10 The subsequent five decades of integration and the development of common pillars have equipped today's Union with an unprecedented experience in devising and implementing mechanisms and structures for integration. Legislative developments reflect the complexity of this process, as social identification with legal principles is inseparable from constitution-building.11 This includes skills from the negotiations over member accession, adoption of acquis communautaire in candidate countries and adaptation to enlargement. By the fifth wave of its enlargement, the Union was able to accommodate the largest number so far of member states at one time. Most of the new members were countries with an immature experience of democracy compared to that of the older member states. In addition to their ability to, inter alia, harmonize their legal norms with the EU, those member states whose entry into the Union dates to the fifth and sixth enlargement waves have brought with them fresh experience in constructing democratic constitutions, from legislation and institutionbuilding to the development of civil society. Overcoming some fundamental challenges of constructing a new socio-economic order after the demise of communism required an ability to devise, test and implement legal principles and institutions that underpin democratic systems. The process also witnessed a difficult balancing between historical memory and tradition in the formation of post-communist national identity. The lack of experience on the part of the reformers was combined with additional challenges, such as frequent counter-reformation attempts, comfort of academia to engage actively in reconciliation processes across the globe. People like him and Novak have significantly contributed to the growth of leaders in Slovakia's civil society, which has led to the removal of the country's nationalist authoritarian regime in 1998 and her return to the European integration process, culminating in EU membership in 2004. 10 Thomas (2000) offers useful insights into Maclntyre's social theory and its application to the incorporation of values and practices in the context of cultural pluralism. 11 Ignatieff commands the ability of EU member states to incorporate and legitimate EU legal norms in a national legislative framework, arguing that, in the USA, '[o]nly domestic law, authored in American institutions, meets Sie test of legitimacy as an authentic expression of national sovereignty' (2005,14). He contrasts the European and US legal processes of the incorporation of conventions of human rights by showing the institutional role of the US electorate in 'defining the balance between individual rights and collective moral preferences' (Ignatieff 2005,15). Gillespie (1996,40) offers a useful analysis of 'constitutional conventions of justification that underpin Western constitutional theory and practice, but which have usually been betrayed or disregarded as it evolved'.

Introduction

5

often with high popular support and appeal. In such circumstances, none of the reformers - political or other leaders, as well as the then fledgling civil society - would have succeeded without a sense of responsibility and perseverance nourished by motivation.12 To borrow Kerry's point, raised elsewhere in this book, the components of motivation deserve a special study. The European Union has just experienced its sixth wave of enlargement, which embodies much of the fruit of the reformers' labour in the two new member states. This, however, is not a fait accompli. With the admission of Romania and Bulgaria, the Union extended its external borders, and thus widened its internal space, opening itself up to a further degree of migration. Perhaps more importantly in terms of the Union facing the challenge of deeper social integration, the accession of the two new member states has brought with it a socio-cultural experience and practice of Christian Orthodoxy. This is of major significance not merely for the Union's internal cohesion, but also in terms of its relationship with its neighbours, particularly Russia as a large state with a complex geopolitical outreach, and Ukraine with its aspirations for EU membership. Furthermore, the Ottoman heritage of the newly acceded region is not merely kept alive through its Muslim minority, but is also present in their administrative and legal traditions. To paraphrase Silvestri's point elsewhere in this volume, the coexistence of different ethnic and religious communities in Europe and the demands for the Union's integration challenge the established value systems and practices not merely at European but equally at a national level.13 From January 2007, the Union is taking an indefinite 'sabbatical' from enlargement. This phase by no means creates a vacuum in further European integration. On the contrary, it is vitally needed to enhance the Union's cohesion. Apart from the 'technical' tasks of restructuring its institutions and procedures, the major challenge lies in the deepening of its integration. It is likely that 'technocrats' and ideologues will, more than in the recent decades, work again in close partnership, as was the case in the times of Europe's 'founding fathers'. A balance between the 12 With reference to an earlier historical context, Ratzinger (1987,211) offers a reflection on some aspects of human motivation, by considering why the East Germans desired to emigrate to the West In addition to the desire to escape the regime, people also have the need to free themselves from the one and only reality which is imposed on them. In the East, at the time, it is the grey reality of socialism. Yet the need to reach beyond the daily reality is also experienced in the West, as 'all diversions and sensations are vain when they claim to be the whole. The loss of transcendence evokes the flight to utopia. I am convinced that the destruction of transcendence is the actual amputation of human beings from which all sicknesses flow. [...] man needs transcendence so that he may shape his world that will always be imperfect in such a way that people can live in it in a manner in keeping with human dignity/ 13 This can be taken further through consideration of Gillespie's view: 'If nation and state are separating out again after two centuries of convergence, there is the possibility that it can recohere in a combination of supranationality and a new regionalism which can deepen national identity as well as contribute to a European cultural identity conceived as a symphony of their diversity rather than a cacophony of their dissonances7 (1996,43).

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two groups needs to be maintained for them to achieve the desired progress in the adaptation of the Union to its new realities. The current 'technical' structure of the Union is no longer adequate to accommodate its growing diversity. Equally, ideological nostalgia (such as secular- or religion-inspired exclusivism) can turn ideologues into 'ideocrats', with a consequent move towards totalitarianism. A failure by either the 'technocrats' or the ideologues to recognize the other's vital presence in the dialogue would create a gulf between the much-needed realism and the idealism, and jeopardize progress in further European integration. As the constitutional process acquires a new momentum, the public role of ideologues that address integration will increase. Europe is thus due to face further heated debates and conflicts. This inevitability derives from a combination of three factors: (1) the presence of diverse identities in the face of growing European and global mobility; (2) the limited ability of public systems and structures to enforce a constructive identification with Europe; (3) Europe's emphasis on harmonization rather than homogenization, a choice that is determined by the still fresh memory of two totalitarian systems of the twentieth century: fascism and communism. Europe - not merely the EU, but, given the growing interconnectedness, its entire polity - is the place of multiple identities on all levels, from individual, to communal, national, transnational and supranational. Increasing interaction between peoples has brought a greater awareness of the complexity of one's own identities. This often leads to confusion and the fear of a loss of personal or communal security. Coupled with the often conflicting demands for participation in complex socio-economic structures, such conditions trigger a defensive reaction leading to self-reassessment. All too often, an attempt for reassertion is aided by a choice (by an individual, group, community, or nation) of one particular identity, leading to further exclusion and limitations on one's ability to interact constructively in the public square. Such a clash of identities, however, is an inevitable part of social coexistence. In contemporary Europe, which is undeniably one of the major reasons that global transformation and interaction are advancing at an unprecedented speed, this clash assumes a heightened amplitude and public manifestation. Europe's constitution is changing in response to all these developments. The European Union alone, through its symbols, leaders and institutions, cannot be the sole 'guide to the perplexed'.14 Through its symbols, however, it can help one to identify with one's wider community. Equally, through the appropriate symbolization of positive historical developments, the Union can provide a positive public motivation for further integration.15 By the time this book will have been published, the Union will have 14 Article 128 of the Maastricht Treaty calls upon the EU to 'contribute to the flowering of the cultures of the member states, while respecting their national and regional diversity and at the same time bringing the common cultural heritage to the fore' (Gillespie 1996, 42). 15 Elsewhere in this volume, Brown offers a specific positive example of a historical experience of social interaction.

Introduction

7

marked, in March 2007, the 50th anniversary of the signing of the Treaties of Rome. It is symbolic that the celebrations will be held under the German Presidency of the Council. As Mach argues elsewhere in this volume, symbols are an important element in the construction of identity. One can draw symbolism, secular as well as religious, from the current German Presidency. Together with its European partners Germany has resumed work on the development of the European Constitution through extended public consultation. It is Germany that, after its disillusionment at the rejection of the Treaty,16 has reactivated an effort to unify Europe further, not through conquest, but through cooperation. The Europe that is still coming to terms with the memory of fascism and communism is now led by the twice-unified Germany that has experienced some of the worst aspects of totalitarian regimes and the consequent challenges of democratic transformation. The acceptance of the leadership of Germany in the renewed drafting of the Constitution Treaty is possible because of Europe's willingness to come to terms with its own past and a determination to create a common constitutional platform to accommodate Europe's diverse identities. The eventual adoption of the European Constitution will mark a significant progress in this process. The Constitution as a document embodying a set of agreed principles will be nothing more than another symbol of the Union, unless it can be embedded in and supported by Europe's systemic arrangement. The Constitution cannot be the panacea for Europe's diverse, often conflicting, identities. To paraphrase Wright, Kapralski and other contributors to this volume - identities are living phenomena carrying within themselves, among other components, history and tradition. Religion can play a constructive role in the constitutional process, not merely in social but also in legal terms. One of the most obvious areas is concordance of religious laws and secular legislation across Europe.17 Another significant factor in the potential of religion to contribute to constitution-building (and Constitution-drafting) is the experience that religious institutions have acquired in the area of human rights: in debates over human rights, religious representatives are by now a common presence. One of the difficulties in the enforcement of human rights internationally has been an inability to apply the principles within a local context without subjecting them to relativist speculation. Another difficulty lies in the inevitable imbalance between rights and responsibilities to the detriment of the latter. This imbalance has arisen for a 16 If we were to look for a historical precedent, Laffan (1996,7) gives an interesting analogy by suggesting that the rejections of Maastricht undermined Europe's confidence in integration. In connection with the Constitution Treaty, its rejections coincided with the Union's eastward enlargement. While the rejections caused a shock to policy-makers, the confidence in integration was not severely undermined. As seen by the agenda of the German Presidency, the resolve to progress with the Treaty has also proven to be uncompromised (as was, after all, the case with Maastricht). 17 While the older member states have become accustomed to the dynamics of the concordance, a number of the new member states bring in a fresh experience of the challenges that this process brings, not least because of their negotiations of concordats with the Holy See.

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number of reasons. These include the changing geopolitical circumstances, and the internationalization of human rights to a degree that local legal and political systems are unable to identify with the concepts of human rights that have been generated in the Euro-Atlantic realm. Another factor is the lack of emphasis upon responsibilities that is outbalanced by an accentuation of liberties, which translate into rights. Despite the undeniable benefits of conventions on human rights, the aforementioned factors pose a major problem for their more effective implementation and enforcement.18 This situation serves as an example for the current debate on the European Constitution. The emphasis on values, with little or no mention of responsibilities, continues to resonate in political declarations of the Union's leadership, such as the one by the current Presidency: The European Union is a community of shared values. The inviolability of human dignity, the right to life and the prohibition of the death penalty, the right to integrity and the prohibition of torture, freedom of thought, conscience and religion and much more: the rights which young people in the west of Europe today enjoy as part of everyday life were not enjoyed by earlier generations. After the painful experiences of national socialism or communist rule in Central and Eastern Europe, respect for fundamental rights first had to be established as a standard.19 If the Constitution Treaty 'envisages significant progress towards valueoriented and socially just Europe, [and] more civil rights',20 the realization of these objectives cannot be achieved without a vision of responsibility. Politically correct language that spares the public from a clear division of roles turns this, an otherwise important statement, into a mere wish-list.21 Nonetheless, the emphasis on value-orientation sets out an important point of reference. It is clear by now that no progress will be achieved without taking into account the religious positions and their relevance to Europe's secular constitution, if it is not to be seen as a threat to the national and religious 18 Ratzinger (1987) argues that from the eighteenth century, European legal systems perceived themselves increasingly as 'potentially universal' (224), freeing themselves from Christian foundations and pursuing the law of reason of the Enlightenment Perceived eventually as Godless (such as by Islam, viewing them from the perspective of ethnic and religious unity), 'they seem like an attack that is both ethnic and religious. [...] At a time when Europe is calling into question or eliminating its own spiritual foundations, is dividing itself from its own history and declaring this to be a cesspool, the answer of a non-European culture can only be a radical reaction and a move back behind the encounter with Christian values'(224). Useful case studies of local implementations of human rights from a religious, namely Catholic, perspective are in Ruston 2004. 19 Council Presidency 2007. 20 Council Presidency 2007. 21 Equally, however, excessive emphasis on responsibilities can take an agenda into the extreme end of dictatorship. Rather than granting and implementing rights, the communist practice emphasized and enforced the responsibility of 'subjects' to the regime.

Introduction

9

sovereignty of the citizens of Europe.22 As indicated earlier in this Introduction, the debate and the wider constitutional process require the participation of the wider public, not merely of religious representatives, but also of civic and intellectual initiatives from religious bodies. A precedent can be found, albeit in a different time and constitutional setting, in the neoconservative movement in the United States in the 1960s and 1970s, when the Jewish and Christian exchange on concepts of polity, constitution, security and economy helped shape a largely secular domestic and foreign policy agenda. Europe is responding to its rapidly changing internal and international circumstances. The response is embodied in an effort to balance the varying components of the coexistence of its diverse populace. As homogenization is not a way forward, in Europe divided we reign. Europe's polity needs to come to terms with this reality and accept a responsibility to contribute to the equilibrium that will enable the progressive coexistence of identities and support the realization of their needs. As Ratzinger suggests, 'only if the concept "Europe" represents a synthesis of political realism and moral idealism can it become a force that will leave its mark on the future'.23 This should not be seen as a call for a 'divine mission', a concept that should be abandoned by ideological and political practice and discarded into the historical archive of international relations. Along similar lines, Ratzinger warns against an 'imminent eschatology', the belief in the tangible proximity of the '"kingdom" or the "new society"/24: Today no-one may want to subscribe to the Enlightenment's belief in progress any more, but a kind of profane Messianism has penetrated deep into the general consciousness. [...] Somehow Hegel's idea that history itself will finally bring about the great synthesis has anchored itself in general consciousness. The idea that the whole of history up till now has been a history of the lack of freedom and that now at last and soon the just society can and must be built [.. .].25 The 'project' of a European Constitution and a new constitution requires close cooperation between theological scholars and religious practitioners, as well as secular policy-makers and other social leaders, in defining the means that would make the project succeed. These include identifying an effective tool for motivation in order to enhance a sense of responsibility for public affairs. Despite global interconnectedness and Europe's role in it, the time is ripe for Europe to look inwards. This is not a call for isolationism. On the contrary, Europe's enhanced ability to balance its history, tradition and identity seems to reflect an effective cooperation of diverse partners within Europe and beyond. 22 For an extensive study of the relationship between religion, sovereignty and constitutionalism, see Philpott 2001. 23 Ratzinger 1987, 222. 24 Ratzinger 1987, 207. 25 Ratzinger 1987, 206.

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Lucia Faltin C. Thematic structure of the book

Identity or, more appropriately, identities are examined within the wider context of shared values, reaching beyond a particular faith or nonreligious framework. In addition to general considerations in some chapters, a number of chapters use case studies. Poland, the Czech Republic and the United Kingdom provide the locus for case studies that assess the role of religion in the development of national, communal and transnational identities and their contribution to European integration. The effect of Islam and of Russian and Greek Orthodoxy in shaping Europe's identity are discussed in the light of deeper integration within Europe, and the Union's relations with her neighbours and other nonmember states. The analysis of the religious roots of Europe's identity today pays particular attention to the secular context of religious communities. Europe is perceived as secular by most of its citizens, regardless of their creed. Bearing this in mind, the authors build upon their expertise in different fields of the arts and humanities to identify some of the key elements of the European religious heritage and its manifestation in Europe's identity, be it secular or otherwise. The analysis involves a multi- and interdisciplinary approach to the theme, including history, religious studies, sociology, cultural studies, European studies, and international relations. The specialisms and/or national connections of the authors provide authenticity for their arguments and interpretations. The book outlines points of convergence and areas of constructive potential for the encounter of identities, thus suggesting ways in which religion might not be a stumbling-block to further European integration, but one of its constructive engines. As such, the volume complements some of the recent work that covers the wider area of religion and contemporary Europe, particularly Byrnes and Katzenstein.26 By offering an insight into the social implications of religion for Europe in the current post-enlargement era, it provides an updated perspective on Europe's enlargement to that offered by Hughes and Grabbe27 in their pre-accession analysis. Their attention is on the as yet penultimate enlargement wave, and for the most part they do not address the question of religion. The focus on religion in this volume as one of the factors that continues to affect social behaviour in cultural integration also complements Williams et al.,28 who provide an overview of the key transition processes and their actors. This volume presents a collection of essays by academics, policymakers and other practitioners who are involved, in various capacities, in interfaith relations. The choice of contributors was primarily determined by the discussion and cooperation between them over the past years on aspects of interfaith, mostly Jewish-Christian, relations and their dynamics particularly in contemporary Europe. The contributions cannot be fully representative of the topic addressed, but offer a specific 26 Byrnes and Katzenstein 2006. 27 Hughes and Grabbe 1998. 28 Williams et al 2001.

Introduction

11

insight from the authors' own academic and/or practical work related to the theme. This publication received a major impulse from a conference held as a part of the Conversation series of the Centre for Research into Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities of the University of Cambridge. By the time it is published, the European Year of Intercultural Dialogue will be well under way as will, hopefully, be progress in the European Constitution. This volume should still be able to contribute to relevant debates surrounding both projects. Given the frequent focus on particular events, places and concerns throughout the book, the currency of argument, rather than proving ephemeral, will hopefully become a source material for students in European history and the development of ideas. Sara Silvestri focuses on coexistence between Muslims and nonMuslims in Europe by offering a historical overview of their relationship and an analysis of eight key challenges to their contemporary coexistence. She concludes that the main threat to Europe brought about by the resurgence of an Islamic presence is the challenge to Europe's conventional understanding of power, justice and related structures. Melanie Wright further advances the focus on Islam. Through an analysis of Udayan Prasad's 1997 film My Son the Fanatic, she subjects the concepts of religious roots to a critical scrutiny. Arguing that the image of root proves static and hierarchical, she considers the figure of the rhizome to accommodate better the changing contemporary identities. Penny Mittler offers an additional interpretation of the rhizome metaphor to study 'hidden solidarities' in nineteenth-century Florence and to offer parallels to contemporary subsidiarity. Focusing on the issue of immigrants, she shows their development locally and their formation of transnational connections. Both Wright and Mittler discuss respectively multiculturalism and tolerance in a diverse society, and question the long-term viability of liberalism's current formations as solutions to Europe's ever-changing communities and their identities. Philippe Gardette opens a part in the volume focusing on Eastern Orthodoxy. He takes a historical overview of Jewish-Greek Orthodox relations to suggest that the connection between Orthodoxy and politics can serve as a critical mediator between the Euro-American realm and the Near East. Irina Levinskaya focuses on the Russian Orthodox Church and assumes a more sceptical view of its mediation potential in the context of European integration. She argues that the ideology and practice of the Russian Orthodox Church remains rooted in the past. The past is thus idealized and the Church, rather than developing, actually stagnates. She suggests that a search for a new identity that would embrace Sie roots of tradition along with liberal values requires a radical change in approach. Grant White analyses the positions on identity and modernity of the official representations of the Russian Orthodox Church to European institutions. This offers another illustration of transnational religious and national identity formation, complementing the Mittler study.

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White argues that the dichotomy of the Church's effort to assess Russian identity among émigré communities and its appeal to tolerance and dialogue limits the Church's chances to keep up with Europe's diversity. Stawomir Kapralski's chapter opens a part of this volume that looks at the interaction between history, memory and identity in the Polish context. Kapralski focuses on the interaction between the post-communist Polish identity and Holocaust memory. Similarly to AmbrosewiczJacobs, he argues that a decade of memory work has so far failed to achieve an acceptance of the reality of Polish-Jewish relations among the general populace. He understands memory as a dynamic, constructed, situational and currently polycentric phenomenon. Jolanta Ambrosewicz-Jacobs focuses on the historical memory of young Poles to discuss Holocaust education as a tool for collective memory construction in post-1989 Poland. Identifying a number of educational initiatives, she shows the positive effect of cooperation between different social actors. She admits, along with Kapralski, that their success in developing space for an integrated community memory remains to be proven. Zdzislaw Mach, concluding the focus on Poland, discusses the role of the Roman Catholic Church in the social and cultural transformation in Poland. He examines its position in the light of identity construction through symbols and contrasting inter-group images. In contrast with Morrow's view of the current Pope, Mach argues that the Church, at least in Poland, by adhering to its communist-era discourse, has failed to adjust to the challenges of democracy and the European integration of post-communist democracies. Milan Lycka elaborates Czech philosophical reflections on spirituality and Europe's unity, by critically examining these concepts in Tomás Masaryk and Jan Patocíca. Updating their positions for the contemporary era, Lycka argues that, without a sense of spiritual unity, the practical attempt to integrate Europe by setting top-down norms proves ineffective, as seen by the failure to adopt a European Constitution. Andrew Brown, in contrast to White's picture of a top-down identity construction, shows how the local tradition of the Unitarians, particularly the Czech RCSU, having avoided exclusivism, has created a theology that served as a basis for the formation of transnational identities for one of Europe's smaller religious groups. Patrick Morrow carries on the focus on the Roman Catholic Church to concentrate on Pope Benedict XVI. He discusses the relevance of religious roots to contemporary Europe. He argues that, in terms of interfaith relations, Benedict XVI is not a fundamentalist or reactionary, but an inclusivist with a particularly open approach to Judaism. Paul Kerry, furthering Lycka's and Morrow's analysis, discusses the effect of the study of faith and religion on modern historiography and the philosophy of history. He focuses on three Catholic thinkers, Joseph Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, George Weigel and Pierre Manent. He suggests that, as shown in the dispute over the preamble to the European Constitution, one of the difficulties in conceptualizing Europe's past is an

Introduction

13

understanding of human motivation. He therefore calls for further study of faith and reason in historiography. Stanislaw Krajewski, expanding Kerry's conclusions, outlines some key elements that need to be considered in the development of an as yet absent philosophy of interreligious dialogue. In the light of the difficulty over defining religion, he turns to tradition as a diachronic living experience that can pave a pathway to dialogue. An interreligious dialogue then becomes a dialogue between representatives of traditions as key identity components. Finally, Tomás Halík draws an analogy between the multitude of meanings of religion and the understanding of secularism. Within the context of the debate over a European Constitution, he addresses the mutual suspicion between secular humanists and believers, who fear that the privatization of religion will destroy the roots of European identity. This, he argues, may ultimately lead to the obliteration of the latter. Echoing Krajewski's understanding of dialogue as precondition for reflection, Halík sees dialogue between secular thinking and religion to be the means to preserve them both in a constructive manner.

Does Islam Challenge European Identity? Sara Silvestri

A. Introduction Discussing Islam in contemporary Europe presents several challenges at multiple levels, both for the expert and for the layperson. This chapter highlights and elaborates on eight main challenges that Islam appears to pose to Europe and vice versa. However, before delving into this it is necessary to take a step backward and look at how European identity has evolved in relation to the culture and religion of Islam throughout history.

B. 'Christian' Europe, the Muslim 'Other', and the question of a 'European identity' Questions about the purpose and identity of a unified Europe have accompanied the birth and evolution of the European Communities (and, later, of the European Union) for half a century. In the face of a renewed expansion and assertion of Islam, both in the so-called 'Muslim world' and in the 'West', in the twenty-first century, these questions acquire renewed salience and intensity. However, before tackling the current relationship between Europe and Islam it is necessary to understand how 'Europe' is conceptualized by Europeans and to consider traditional and critical approaches to the meaning of EU identity.1 Much has been written on how, especially through the medieval experience, Europe developed out of the opposition between the 'Christian Self - the res publica Christiana - and the 'Muslim Other' and on how the spirit of the crusades persisted till the Enlightenment.2 Although the Enlightenment challenged and defeated to a large extent Christian hegemony in culture and power politics, it did not spare the Muslim world (at that time symbolized by the Ottoman empire) from criticism of its decadence and despotism. It actually contributed to producing an intellectual attitude of 'fascinated distrust' towards Islamic society, which then engendered Orientalism.3 1 Cf. Asad 2002; Kumar 2002. 2 Cf. Hay 1957; Chabod 1967; Hourani 1991; Rich 1999; Cardini 2000; Strath 2003; Nexon 2006. 3 Said 1995; Rich 1999.

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Does Islam Challenge European Identity?

15

Of all these elements that have contributed to shaping European identity, Christianity is often regarded as the crucial one, if only because it has been a central factor of political and cultural unification. Hence, we can join the chorus of those who affirm that the traditional religious physiognomy of Europe is Christianity.4 This affirmation must not be misunderstood. Asserting the crucial contribution made by Christianity to European identity does not mean entering the debate over the Christian legacy of Europe as opposed to the Islamic one. Whether Christianity was the only one or one of several religious and cultural traditions that influenced Europe; whether Europe is still Christian or not; and to what extent the Islamic culture made a crucial contribution to the development of science and philosophy in Europe are all important matters that are worth discussing. However, they are not relevant to the point I intend to make here, and which can be summarized with Madeley's words: 'Europe's historic association with Christianity is itself unambiguous and strong' and its degree of secularization has never 'become so comprehensive as to obliterate the Christian stripe in European culture'.5 He argues that 'contemporary nations and states of modern Europe have been profoundly affected by the religious legacy of Christianity'; this religion has moulded Europe 'sometimes as a force for internal unity and sometimes as a factor of conflict and opposition'.6 We can also add that classical culture was preserved and educational institutions were founded in Europe thanks to the work of religious orders. We should not forget, for instance, that the much-respected universities of Oxford and Cambridge were established as religious (Christian) institutions in the first instance. Furthermore, in more recent times, the EC/EU integration project itself was initiated by politicians and statesmen belonging to Christian democracy.7 Therefore, even if contemporary Europe is increasingly secularized and states are moving towards the adoption of a 'neutral' attitude towards organized religion,8 the 'shared religious heritage' of Western Europe has been, and possibly will be in the future, 'one of the crucial factors in the continent's development', influencing 'a whole range of cultural values'.9 Looking at the Italian situation, it is interesting to notice how, during public debates on European identity in the course of 2004, even atheist intellectuals joined up with Cardinal Ratzinger (now Pope Benedict XVI) in the claim that Europe should reassert its 'Christian roots'. A renowned laico (secularist), the former President of the Italian Senato (high chamber of parliament) even co-authored a book with Cardinal Ratzinger; it is entitled Senza Radici.10 These remarks suggest that Islam is not rooted in Western Europe in the same way as Christianity. Indeed, historically and culturally, Islam 4 Croce 1944; Nielsen 2001; Kumar 2002. 5 Madeley 2003, 8. 6 Madeley 2003, 9. 7 Cf. Kselman and Buttigieg 2003; Prodi 2001; Risse and Engelmann-Martin 2002. 8 Madeley 2003; Enyedi 2003. 9 Davie 2000, 6 10 'Without Roots', published by Mondadori in 2004.

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has left crucial landmarks in Europe and some can rightly argue that the contribution of Islam to the identity of Europe is no less than the legacy of Christianity.11 This is true from the point of view of cultural production and dissemination throughout the centuries. For a comparatively short time, until the expulsion of the Arabs from Spain in 1492, Muslim civilizations did thrive in some European regions (Sicily and Spain mainly) and Muslim culture has indeed influenced the development of European knowledge in the sciences and arts, from philosophy, to architecture, to the natural sciences, and so on. However, after that experience, Europe did not absorb Islamic values or laws into its social and juridical system. Rather, it was Christian teaching that remained the frame of reference and determined the production of European thought, culture and social structures. Even during the Enlightenment period the secularist intellectual discourse was developed in relation - as an opposition - to Christianity. Therefore, as a result of a series of historical, cultural, psychological and juridical developments, the institutional, legal and societal configuration of twenty-first-century Europe indicates that Islam has in fact weak links with Europe. These weak links are due partly to specific characteristics of Islam as a religion, and also to its history, and to the way it is structured. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the EU is a 'far-ranging political, economic, and cultural experiment', whose identity and future remain undefined, although the 'initial and prime objective of "Europe" as a political (and economic) conception is to ensure peace - an objective it shares with Kant's cosmopolitan order'.12 It is generally agreed that Europe and the EU project are culturally and civilizationally rooted in the Hellenic, Roman, Christian and Enlightenment traditions, which have generated the notions of freedom, democracy, equality and solidarity upon which Western societies are founded. However, it has become difficult - and some deem it inappropriate - to ask what the current and future identity of Europe should be.13 This is mainly because Europe has accommodated diversity and otherness within itself, thus taking the form of a multiplicity, of a unitas multiplex.14 'Europe and Europeans were constantly modified by the interaction' of individuals and populations across borders and civilizations,15 therefore Europe does not exist without non-Europe and can only be realized 'in the mirror of Others'.16 In this sense Europe is and has always been a 'transnational space' and has become a 'collective idea'.17 As a 'contested concept that must appear in the plural', it cannot be comprised in a 'unified set of norms', or in a 'homogeneous discourse' transcending the divisions of European history.18 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Allievi 2003; Goody 2004; Martin-Muñoz 2004. Pagden 2002, 2, 7. Passerini 2002; Elbe 2003. Passerini 2002,197. Kumar 2003, 35. Strath 2003, 77-8. Pagden 2002,1. Strath 2003, 76, 81.

Does Islam Challenge European Identity?

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EU member states are essentially divided in their attempts to define the primary objective of the EU - just a free market or a political union? and the extent of its military and defence capability. Evidence of these divisions can be found in the debates about the wars in Bosnia and Iraq in the 1990s and at the beginning of the new century. The enlargement of the EU (that of May 2004 was the largest in its history), accompanied by the practical need to reform its institutions and functioning mechanisms, has accentuated the need to clarify the EU's objectives and identity. Increasing immigration into the EU and the consequent expansion of Islam in the region, especially in the course of the 1990s, have intensified this need. Finally, the urgency to demarcate the EU's cultural identity along with its borders became even more manifest with the candidature of Turkey to EU membership. Although Turkey became a constitutionally secular republic in 1923, and adopted a strict separation between the religious and the public sphere, culminating in the abolishment of the institution of the Caliphate in 1924, the country is still regarded as culturally Muslim and is a prestigious and very active member of the Organization of the Islamic Conference (OIC), the intergovernmental body founded in 1969 which claims to represent the interests of and speak on behalf of the world's Muslim ummah. All these factors create the impression that the country is susceptible to the infiltration of an Islamist discourse. In simple terms, Islamism - also called Political Islam - can be defined as the interpretation and use of religion for political purposes. Islamism is therefore both different from and connected to Islam as a religion. This political theology originated in North Africa at the beginning of the twentieth century and soon spread to the Middle East and Asia. Islamism borrows its driving reasons, symbols and language from Islam in order to theorize a variety of degrees and methods of political mobilization and to bring about Islamization and social change. In certain extreme cases Islamist thinkers and militants have justified political violence.19 These occurrences and the idea that such violent ideologies could have generated from Islam clearly have rendered Europeans anxious about welcoming Islam unconditionally. Elsewhere I have outlined various stages, during the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, when Europe encountered and confronted the spectre of violence stemming from political Islam.20 Here I would like to take the opportunity to complement my analysis by taking a wider perspective and spelling out a series of challenges that Islam - not just political Islam - seems to pose to Europe.

C. Eight Islamic challenges to Europe 1. Multiple Islams The first challenge is a matter of terminology: 'what Islam' are we talking about? And whom do we mean by 'Muslims'? There are many 19 Kepel 2001. 20 Silvestri 2007.

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theological and law traditions within Islam all over the world; interpretations of this faith also differ depending on historical and regional contexts and contacts with local cultures and traditions. Even in a same given 'Muslim' area it is possible to find a multiplicity of versions of Islam. So, in any discussion of Islam it is important to be aware from the outset that we should not essentialize, that Islam is a fragmented entity and that perhaps one of the major challenges is indeed internal to this religion; it is the tension between the universal meaning of Islam and the plurality of its diverse (and often diverging) inflections. There are major differences, for instance, not only between Sunnism and Shiism but also within each of these traditions, between Wahhabism and Deobandism for example. The characteristics that differentiate Muslims in the Muslim states are perhaps even more visible when they migrate into Europe because, when all these individuals are transplanted from Asia, from North Africa, from the Gulf, and so on, they end up constituting microcosms that coexist within Europe. Maybe they interact but do not really merge. People might live at a very short distance from each other, and yet perhaps not be communicating with each other. In fact people still socialize, worship and form organizations primarily along national, ethnic, or linguistic lines. There are, for instance, mosques where people speak Arabic, because they are attended by Muslims of Arab origin; there are mosques where people speak Urdu, because their constituency comes from South Asia; or there are Turkish-speaking mosques and associations. Dynamics of rivalry are not infrequent among the multifarious components of the European ummah. 2. Terrorism and violence

The second, obvious challenge with which Islam is often identified consists in the threat to security and to global order represented by religiously inspired violence, namely the so-called 'Islamist terrorism'. My take on this issue is that this phenomenon has to do with the manipulation of religious principles and that the motivations and dynamics behind it should not be seen as deriving from anything evil or perverse inherent in the message of Islam. Hence, academic and policy responses to it should call this threat for what it is: violence and terrorism. We live in a world where dissatisfaction with the social and political order is widespread and palpable. The symbolic language of Islam simply offers powerful tools to articulate anger and displacement. In this sense the dynamics of attraction to and engagement in this form of 'religiously inspired' (an expression which I am normally very reluctant to use) political violence should not be very different from the involvement in any extremist ideology. We should also consider, as Roy (2004), Sageman (2004), Gray (2003) and other experts of radical Islam and criminologists argue, that the violence carried out in the name of Islam is fully part of modernity. More generally, I would add that such violence falls in a general stream of violence - externalized in various ways, which include alcohol and drug abuse, street crime, bullying, suicide, school massacres, and so on - which affects a particular age

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group in Western countries. A recent study on the problems of twentyfirst-century British youth seems to confirm this general tendency to violence caused by a multiplicity of factors.21 The bottom line of this argument is that the radicalization of Muslim youth has more to do with individual psychology and the dynamics of belonging to a peer group than with socio-economic conditions or with the theology of Islam. True, the opponents of Islam could at this point raise the thorny issue of Islam's factual relationship with violence in the history of the religion itself. This deserves some reflection here. It also leads on to a set of questions I find myself facing more and more frequently when talking about this topic, especially with people, including highly educated ones, who are not expert in the field. These questions are: 'Does Islam pose a moral problem to Europe and to the West? Doesn't it justify violence? If it does, then, doesn't this pose Islam explicitly in opposition to the message of love and forgiveness that is at the heart of Christianity - a notion which in turn has largely formed the way we reason about peace and war in the West?' In order to attempt to answer these questions we need to look at the history and at the theology of Islam.22 The history of the Muslim populations has involved many battles and has produced Islamic kingdoms and empires but the essence of Islam - as indeed the essence of any religion - is 'transcendent', has nothing to do with territory and worldly power, although humans from every faith have often attempted to legitimate their claims for power through their religious beliefs. From this point of view, Islam has been exploited for earthly ends no more and no less than Christianity has for many centuries. However, differently from Jesus, Muhammad did create a political community in a particular part of the world and, at some point, did engage in physical war. And here comes the paradox. If Islam means indeed 'peace', unity and harmony between God and humankind, as its supporters keep emphasizing at a time when they are criticized from all sides, what most people have trouble with is reconciling this idea with the battles fought by the Prophet against the pagan and Jewish tribes that would not accept his rule. The core message of Islam is enshrined in the Quran but an important source is also the 'exemplary' life of Muhammad, which is summed up in the hadith. For this reason for Muslims it is difficult to be critical of the deeds of the Prophet, even when his actions entailed violence, whereas it is possible to discharge certain social and political realities of the Muslim world as the product of human (hence imperfect, corrupt) actions. Muslims would often find a relatively satisfactory answer to this dilemma of the presence of violence in Islam by emphasizing that Muhammad was not a god or the son of God; God showed him the right peaceful path but since the Prophet was a human among humans in certain situations he had no other option but to fight, but this was not the preferential option to take. After this very condensed excursus in the history and theology of Islam I do not have any presumption to have reconciled us with the problem of the presence 21 Cf. Margo et al 2006. 22 Useful texts are: Watt 1979; Lapidus 1988; Esposito 1998.

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of violence in the history of Islam; nevertheless, I hope to have provided some useful material to take into consideration in order to have an informed debate about Islam as a religion, as a culture, and as a source of political mobilization. 3. Immigration Third, to most Europeans Islam equals immigration simply because the largest numbers of immigrants who arrived into the EU over the past four decades originate from countries where Islam is the predominant belief if not the official faith (e.g. Algeria, Morocco, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Turkey). The literature about immigration and the consequent social transformations connected with the interaction between different races and faiths in Europe is already so vast that there is no need to expand on this point.23 However, I would like to crystallize here a few points which are essential in the process of immigration: whether it involves white or black people, immigration is always destabilizing because it touches upon the economic equilibrium, the social fabric, the culture and traditions - including attitudes to religion - of any society experimenting with it. Any immigrant, whether Muslim, Irish or Latino, challenges the status quo because s/he occupies the space and utilizes the resources of the indigenous population, and by breeding there physically 'contaminates', 'colonizes7 that space indelibly.24 Hence, defensive attitudes towards any immigrant population are not surprising. The 'securitization' of immigration policies25 which became visible in the European Union (EU) member states at the close of the twentieth century is a clear example of that phenomenon and was only accentuated and accelerated - not provoked in thefirstinstance - by incidents of 'Islamic' terrorism.26 4. The shifting meanings of religion and of secularism The fourth challenge of Islam to Europe has to do with incorporating a 'thick7 but multifarious religion27 in a secular society which is not static and not monolithic either. This calls for an analysis not only of the meaning of religion and of secularism in Europe but of the evolving relationship between the two. Within Europe itself, there are multiple, competing interpretations of the degree and form of separation that should exist between the religious (private) and the public sphere where politics takes place. In addition, addressing the impact of Islam in the 23 See for example: Dassetto and Allievi 1993; Cesari 1994; Haddad 2002; Rex 1986; Gilroy 1987; Werbner and Modood 1997; Sassen 1999; Solomos 2003; Süvestri 2005a/b. 24 Cf. Lebow 1976; Hickman 1995; Walter 2001; Tibi 2002; Castles and Miller 2003; Geddes 2003; Cornelius et al. 2004; Ansari 2004. 25 Huysmans 2000. 26 Cf. Süvestri 2005a. 27 Sudipta Kaviraj very effectively used this term at the conference 'Religion and the Political Imagination' (Cambridge, July 2006) to refer to visible religious identities that may - but not necessarily - lead to political changes. 'Thick' religion seems to differ slightly from 'strong' religion as articulated by Almond, Appleby and Sivan (2002) in order to address the phenomenon of fundamentalism.

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present time also more broadly means coming to terms with a general return of religiosity in the world28 as well as with the sui generis phenomenon of 'believing without belonging',29 which is particular to Europe and is indicative of the 'limits' of the secular Europeanization process.30 While the West in general has adopted an attitude towards religion and ethical matters which is secular, interpretations of secularism and expressions of religiosity vary greatly across the European countries, depending on the philosophy or the historical events which have marked them. For instance, the Enlightenment philosophy and the Revolution left a very strong mark in France, where one cannot really bring up religion in the public sphere, and one cannot wear religious symbols in state buildings such as schools. Conversely in the case of Italy, the country's historical contacts with the Catholic Church and the presence of the Vatican on its soil have definitely marked the way in which Italian society relates to religious communities and has led to particular privileges being given to the Catholic Church. In the UK, although there is an established religion (the Church of England), historical developments have impacted on the country in such a way that Britain is now one of the most secularized countries in Europe. Beyond the perception of the 'Islamic threat', Europeans seem to be scared of the religious factor per se. They are shocked by a reassertion of identity and by a political participation that takes place along religious lines. There is a discrepancy in European attitudes to religion which seems to reflect a crisis of identity. On the one hand, there is renewed appetite for a religious dimension among some Europeans, testified by the growth of New Age groups, the spread of Oriental religions, the increasing numbers of conversions to Islam, and by a proliferation of TV and radio programmes on, and of newspaper coverage of, religious affairs. On the other hand, European society is suspicious of people practising religion and is unable to cope with a religious dimension that transgresses the private sphere and becomes public and embraces the social and political sphere. The Muslim public assertion of belief through visible signs and specific group claims seems to shake the very foundations of the secularized, though diverse, Western context. It demands an official role - be it controversial, scandalous, or dignified - for religion in the European public sphere. Ironically, Islam reasserts its place in the Western context by appealing to those liberal principles of freedom and fundamental rights that over the last two centuries had served to take away the power of religious institutions and affirm the centrality of the individual and the self-determination of minorities.31 Thus, the fortune of Islam in Europe proceeds like a circular movement going the opposite direction of the privatization of religion and ending at the same point (actually one 28 29 30 31

Cf. Berger 1999. Davie 1994; 2000. Byrnes and Katzenstein 2006. Cf. Soysal 1994; Kymlicka 1995; Lyons and Mayall 2003.

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millimetre before) where privatization began. This is particularly evident if we observe the current drive towards tire institutionalization of Islam in Europe.32 There seems to be an inverse relation: the more disestablished traditional Western religions become, the more official the presence of Islam becomes. Yet, this increasing institutionalization of Islam goes hand in hand with a multiplication of Islamic viewpoints and experiences. These partly derive from theological, historical and ethnicor cultural-specific variations of Islam. However, they also more and more often derive from competition between Muslim individuals, political leaders, religious scholars and movements for the control of the communities and the official representation of the faith before Western secular authorities as well as before other faiths. Hence, interacting with the European context exposes more than ever the internal fractures that exist within Islam and the consequent lack of clear leadership. I will expand on the juridical implications of this situation in the paragraphs below. Before, however, it is important to highlight another factor that renders Islam 'suspicious' to Europe: the transnational character of this faith. 5. The global ummah and the political dimension of Islam Despite their doctrinal fragmentation, Muslims throughout the world identify with the 'global community7 of the believers in Islam, the ummah, and share the theological point that being a Muslim is an allencompassing life experience. The corollaries are that religion (din) cannot be divorced from politics (dawla) and that the only true sovereignty and law are those of God.33 Muslim scholars and thinkers have put forward different, even opposed, views concerning the translation of these beliefs into practice. The interpretation of these points in the holy scriptures has determined the acceptance or the rejection of concepts such as democracy and human rights by Islamic thinkers and movements. Reflection on the practical application of Islamic political theology has generated various forms of Islamism throughout history. In a few cases it has led to the creation of (or attempt to create) religion-based polities. Contemporay Iran and Saudi Arabia constitute two evident examples. What is important to note is that these theological notions give Muslims enormous symbolic strength, communal identity and potential to unite for common causes. In the early twenty-first century this global identity is reinforced and articulated through the Internet and through involvement in civil society (as well as in terrorist) networks.34 This trans- and supranational point of reference for Muslim identity does not differ much from the notion of 'universal church' in Christianity. Yet, whereas the Christian churches were 'nationalized' throughout the centuries in Europe, Islam remains 'loose', very much based on the relationship that the individual 32 Cf. Silvestri forthcoming. 33 Cf. Esposito 1998. 34 Cf. Roy 2004; Eickelmann and Piscatori 2004; Mandaville 2001.

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establishes with God and on his or her sense of belonging to the universal community of the faithful. This fluidity of Islamic identity coupled with the disconnection of this religion from Western statecentred views can induce people to see Islam as a treacherous ideology that aims to defy and subvert the status quo. Islamist and terrorist networks whose ambition is to cleanse society from corruption and to establish a God-fearing Islamic polity, the Caliphate, under Sharia law obviously reinforce this fear. 6. Enlarging Europe to the Muslim world In turn, discussing issues of state sovereignty and citizens' loyalty in relation to the transnational character of Islam inevitably leads us to look at another big test for Europe: the prospect of enlarging as far as to include countries with considerable numbers of Muslims in their populations, such as Turkey or Bulgaria. According to unofficial estimates Muslims are respectively 98 and 13 per cent of the population in these two countries. In the years at the turn of the millennium, a wealth of publications appeared on the topic of Turkey and its relations to Islam and to Europe.35 Reproducing them here would not add anything new to the debate and would lead us astray from the central point of discussion of this paper. It is nevertheless important to highlight that the repeated mantra revolves around the Turkish exceptionalism: the republic has strict French-styled secular institutions which nevertheless control mosques' leadership and the teaching of the Islamic faith both domestically and abroad through the diyanet, a sort of Ministry for Religious Affairs.36 In addition, a general return to religious practices in the country, supported by the advent of a party in government (the Justice and Development Party or AKP), which stems from an Islamist group, puts Turkey in a paradoxical situation which poses heavy questions for Turks and Europeans. Hence, the alarming message that is spreading in Europe is the following: Turkey is going through a process of re-Islamization despite its secular constitution. Accepting Turkey into the EU means accepting that potentially this phenomenon can start in Europe too. For their part, Turkish Muslims should be prepared to reconsider their religiosity in a secular European environment that is significantly different from the current Turkish secular context. Hence there is a need to carefully consider the meaning of secularism and of religion both in Europe and in Turkey. 7. Lack of institutions and leadership The global and fluid dimension of the Islamic identity coupled with the fragmentation and lack of clear leadership, authority and hierarchy in this religion are all issues that constitute a seventh problematic point. Both the European establishment and Muslims living in Europe are faced 35 E.g. Tapper 1991; Yavuz and Esposito 2003; Silvestri 2005b, forthcoming 2007a; Shakman-Hurd 2006; Yilmaz and Aykac forthcoming 2007. 36 Cf. Silvestri 2005a.

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with the juridical challenge of regulating relations between the state and the Muslim individuals and communities settled there. This problem goes beyond the mere application of the principle of freedom of religion. It has to do with group rights and also with the legal status that Islam should have in the complex historically established pattern of 'churchstate' relations in Europe. Various law experts, as well as myself, have expanded more in detail on this topic.37 The gist of my argument is that, in the absence of hierarchic structures in the religion of Islam, both Muslims and secular institutions are compelled to devise artificial ways to ensure that Islam is treated equally to other religions and to allow Muslims to interact with the establishment in order to put forward their concerns pertaining to issues of policy-making that affect Muslims. The strategies adopted to reach this objective are essentially two. One is that of creating, ex novo, Muslim institutions based on an already existing traditional pattern of church-state relations which derives from the historically dominant role of the Christian churches in Europe. These new Muslim institutions normally have a representative and consultative role, are called 'national Muslim councils' and tend to claim legitimacy by referring to the Islamic idea of ijma (consultation).38 The alternative strategy adopted by Muslims to make sure that their voice is passed on to the higher spheres is that of organizing themselves in associations that lobby the government and target the media in an extremely effective and professional way. This latter pragmatic strategy, which is clearly dictated by the market laws of contemporary policy-making, has proved rather successful. In both cases, though, it is evident that whatever tactic of mobilization Muslims adopt, they will tend to adapt it to the mainstream discourse and to the conventional mechanisms of interaction with the state. In particular they are faced with the urgency to produce instances of authority and institutions and to do so by complying with national legislation. The pressures and interests from all sides that are at play in this dynamic are several. However, this complex situation can also lead to a deadlock in democratic representation as there is a risk of ending up with a vicious circle whereby Muslim organizations seek the legitimation of the state in order to become legitimate institutions in the eyes of their communities. Rivalry among Muslim individuals and organizations in order to access visibility and power is an obvious outcome of this process of state-controlled institutionalization, domestication and securitization of Islam.39 One could even go as far as to argue that, after all, the presence of Islam reinforces rather than undermines the role of the state in contemporary Europe. 8. Identities Finally, and most importantly, dealing with Islam in Europe means dealing with the much debated notion of European identity. There is a 37 Cf. Ferrari 19%; Robbers 2005; Süvestri 2005a; 2006. 38 Süvestri 2005a. 39 Cf. Süvestri forthcoming.

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tendency to forget that such an identity encompasses both the experiences and feelings of (non-Muslim) indigenous Europeans and those of Muslim individuals who happen to be European citizens or immigrants, either temporarily living in Europe or wishing to settle in this part of the world. If by Europe we mean the EU, we realize that it is constituted by an amalgam of states that are still very strongly attached to their own sovereignty. Although they have been trying to interact with each other and to develop common policies, it is at least as difficult to say that there is a European identity as it is to say that there is a North American one: people are still divided nationally and are very protective of their cultural, ethnic and linguistic characteristics, of their own history, and of the particular mentality that has developed in a specific region. So, Europeans themselves have different attitudes and feelings towards religion and towards foreigners. If we take the issue of intercultural relations and the relations among different communities, we cannot say that there is 'one European approach'. For instance, while we have a multiculturalist approach in the UK and Holland, we have an assimilationist one in France.40 The fact that Muslims have gained prominence in the last ten to fifteen years in the public sphere - participating in social and political life by energetically asserting their allegiance to their religion - has provoked a shock for European mentality. The resulting impression is that Islam is challenging European values. This situation is aggravated by the confrontational fundamentalist attitudes of certain Muslim countries and by terrorists that claim to perpetrate violence in the name of Islam in order to cleanse society from corruption and deviance and restore divine justice. Especially - but not only - those who do not have the sensitivity and the educational background to appreciate the variety of interpretations and the ideological and doctrinal differentiations that exist in Islam fear that Islam is embodied by extremist Muslim voices and that their objective is to take over European society and enforce Sharia. A critical moment when this feeling was pervading Europe coincided with the demonstrations against the cartoons of Muhammad that took place in the streets of European capitals in February 2006. There was a great fear across Europe that Islam would challenge European liberal values of freedom of speech, of tolerance and of political participation in the democratic system. Europe's schizophrenic attitude towards religion (Cf. above) is indicative of a broader identity crisis, a crisis about Europe's own history and values, as well as about the purpose and the essence of its political organizations, the nation state but also the EU, which seem to be at a standstill when Turkey is at its doorstep waiting to become a member of the club. But the identity crisis pervading Europe is not just affecting non-Muslim individuals and institutions. An aspect of this crisis is the relationship between generations. When addressing the problem of radicalization of the young, we should put it into perspective 40 Cf. Taylor et al 1994; Kymücka 1995; Parekh 2000.

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and observe it in the light of a general problem of communication between different age groups. In addition to this generational gap, there is also a lack of opportunity, of stimuli and of meaningful ideals for the youth in Europe. Muslims in Britain for instance often complain that imams in mosques are out of touch with the younger generation; they do not speak the same language and fail to 'connect' with their interests. Imams and scholars are unable to advise the youth, let alone to control them and dissuade them from following the hardliners (a task that governments would very much like religious leaders to do). This is an undeniable and widespread problem for the Muslim communities. However, if one strikes a parallel with other religious communities one could wonder whether priests and ministers in Christian churches, or rabbis in their own synagogues, are always in touch with their young constituencies ... not always. Similarly, people are disturbed by expressions of Muslim distrust of the government, by Muslim demonstrations in the streets and, worse, by the use of violent methods instead of participation in the normal political system according to the available political opportunities and structures. But, looking at the broader picture, one can notice that there are many parallels between alienated Muslim youth and the growing numbers of disaffected people that choose not to vote in national and local elections, or who join the angry crowds of the anti-global movement. What about the general frustration with the democratic deficit of national, European and international institutions? Or Western people's sense of failure of the great ideals of freedom, democracy and human rights in the light of the tragedies of Rwanda, Bosnia, Palestine, Iraq and the general dissatisfaction with the policies (not just the foreign policies but the economic ones for instance) of their own governments? These examples serve to show that the relationship between Islam and Europe is multidirectional. Not only is Islam challenging Europe but Europe too is questioning Islam. In addition, there are a number of external problems that these two perceived 'separate entities' (Islam and Europe) share and there is a considerable amount of positive interaction going on between the Muslim and non-Muslim inhabitants of Europe. There is a convergence, for instance, in political movements, especially in unconventional political movements. For example, many Christian, secular and Muslim organizations and individuals supported the Make Poverty History campaign which was launched in the UK in 2005. Similarly, people of all denominations and beliefs participated together in the anti-war demonstrations that took place all over Europe in response to the US and British decision to go to war in Iraq in February and March 2003. These are examples of positive interactions in which each group is able to maintain its own identity and fight for the cause of social justice without rejecting its own origins. This actually leads to the realization that in practice Europeans have common values they believe in and can fight for together. Islam in Europe is developing and the number of Muslims in Europe is increasing every day. Both the Muslim and non-Muslim inhabitants of Europe are transforming their lifestyles and religious practices through

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interaction with the external environment and with each other.41 Not only are Muslims transforming Europe, but also Europe is transforming Muslims and European Islam. This process, according to Tibi,42 generates a 'Euro-Islam7. D. Conclusions Especially after 9/11, and the subsequent terrorist attacks inside and outside Europe carried out by people who were allegedly fighting in the name of Islam, Europeans have increasingly questioned Muslims about the true nature of Islam. At the same time, certain Muslim practices and doctrines seem to challenge principles and values that characterize European society and European history. In European society Muslims and Islam are often regarded as a cohesive and unsettling entity. In reality, fragmentation is a feature both of postmodern European society and of Islam. Enquiring about Islam seems more difficult than examining European identity because of the many fractures that divide the Muslim inhabitants of Europe along historical, doctrinal, ethnic and geographical lines. The lack of an authoritative view and institution in Islam presents a major problem for the way European states think and deal with religion. Broadly speaking, Europe is a secular and Christian society, which has developed political and legal strategies for interacting with religious groups - primarily retaining the traditional historical format of relations with the Catholic Church, or those that other Christian churches have developed with their governments. The prime first attempt was to see whether Islam could fit into that pattern. However, since Islam lacks a hierarchical organization, lacks one clear leadership, and is fragmented into different doctrinal schools, European governments and Muslims for that matter have tried to find alternative ways to relate to each other and to allow Muslims to have a voice in the public sphere and to interact with government. As a result we have seen the creation of Muslim consultative and representative bodies actively promoted by European states. These new institutions draw on and constitute an artificial notion of 'moderate' Islam, which allegedly should help stop the rise of extremism and Islamic fundamentalism. For their part, not all Muslim communities across Europe have bought into this idea of moderate Islam. Some have simply decided to join these Muslim councils for opportunistic reasons, because that was the only effective available path to convey their views to European society. Other groups have remained very aggressive and hostile to this form of participation. There is a sense that governments in Europe want to 'domesticate' European Islam. Of course, the problem of creating appropriate organizations and appropriate channels for Muslims to relate with their governments has also triggered a series of dynamics and political rivalries within Muslim circles as well as inside political parties seeking to manipulate the issue in order to gain votes. 41 Cf. Cesari 2004; Klausen 2005. 42 Tibi 2002.

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To conclude, not all the challenges that Islam seems to pose are in fact 'Islamic' challenges, intrinsic to Islam. Often they are just problems of our epoch which are likely to become more visible when the 'Muslim Other' becomes our neighbour. Terrorism is certainly a threat regardless of the ideology it draws on - and should be dealt with for what it is. The politics of difference and the increasing demands for recognition on the part of the Muslim communities of Europe undoubtedly constitute big challenges - though not unsurpassable - for European mentality, law and societal structures. Many have argued that the 'positive' aspect of facing the presence of Islam in Europe nowadays consists in the necessity to reflect back upon European identity. I would like to add here that this reflexive turn can only be beneficial insofar as it does not exhaust itself in a defensive attitude that resuscitates a pristine and static golden era of enlightened Christendom. Rather, looking at the inheritance of the past should enable us to learn from the dreadful experiences of demonization of the other. Reflecting on the roots of Europe can also bring to light practices, traditions, a sense of justice, and worldviews that are not too far from the Islamic perspective. This insight might enable us to empathize more with Muslim attitudes. Looking at the past should also instil some hope in our minds through the realization that even in what is considered to be the darkest period of history, the Middle Ages, a peaceful cohabitation and fertile interaction with Islam was possible in Europe, with Cordoba as the most vivid example. So, the past relationship with Islam can actually emerge less black-and-white than we would have imagined; this awareness could lead our judgement and actions in the present. But perhaps, in the end, the real serious challenge that Islam poses to Europe and to the West is its ability to question the validity and the effectiveness of the notions of power, authority and justice which underpin our political bargaining, structures and institutions. The transnational, religiously inspired and civil-society-based mobilization of Muslims across the world exposes the failures of traditional forms of political participation and of representative democracy; it picks up a global message of dissatisfaction with the ability to bring about justice on earth. Nevertheless, given the circumstances of fragmentation within the ummah that I described above, I doubt that we will ever see in concrete terms an 'Islamic takeover', an 'invasion' of Europe, even if Islam indeed contains a strong revolutionary message, which is not very different from the spirit of the Reformation. The best way to describe the challenge posed by the return of Islam to Europe at the turn of the twenty-first century is perhaps that it has inaugurated a new 'cultural revolution'.

Re-viewing My Son the fanatic (Udayan Prasad, 1997) after 7/7; or, Roots, Routes, and Rhizomes Melanie J. Wright Tm sure by now the media's painted a suitable picture of me.. /. The words of Muhammad Siddique Khan, filmed before killing himself and six others in the Edgware Road tube on 7 July 2005, position print and broadcast journalism as servants of the Government's 'power and wealth obsessed agendas'. Also traceable in Khan's speech is the concept of the suicide bomber as performer; a construction of the annihilation of self and others as something resembling anarchism's propaganda of the deed: 'our words have no impact upon you, therefore I'm going to talk to you in a language that you understand. Our words are dead until we give them life with our blood/1 A year later, attempts to interpret the action of Khan and his fellow bombers understandably show no signs of abating. The May 2006 Home Office report - indicative, perhaps of the impossibility of such a task eschews explanation for a 'narrative' opening with nostalgic images of pre-bomb London as a paradise lost: July 2005 in the UK started with a strongly positive feel. On 6 July London won the competition to host the 2012 Olympic games. A few days earlier the Live 8 concerts had sent an unprecedentedly powerful message to world leaders about poverty in Africa.. ..7 July began unsettled, with heavy showers in places.2 Even Khan, however, could surely not have imagined that just two weeks after the attacks, ten months before the official report's release, a fiction feature, My Son the fanatic (directed by Udayan Prasad) would already have been dubbed 'the first 7/7 film', a work providing the answer to 'the big question, how could apparently assimilated British born Muslims end up stuffing bombs into their backpacks and murdering dozens of their compatriots?'3 Although there have been a number of

1 'London Bomber: Text in full', BBC News,hhttp://news.bbc.co.nk/l/hi/uk/4206800.stm posted on 1 September 2005, accessed 21.07.2006. 2 'Report of the Official Account of the Bombings in London on 7th July 2005', paras 1 and 3 June Thomas, 'The first 7/7 movie', Slate, available online at http://slate.msn.com/id/ 2122935, accessed 21.06.2006.

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films created around September 11, 2001,4 this is a striking designation, given that My Son the Fanatic was released in 1997, and has its origins in an earlier short story penned by its screen-writer, Hanif Kureishi.5 Such appeal to Kureishi's work is, however, nothing new. His screenplays and stories, like My Beautiful Laundrette (Stephen Frears, 1985) and The Buddha of Suburbia (published in 1990; adapted for BBC television in 1993) are widely regarded as important markers of the evolution of multicultural Britain. Narratively speaking, My Son the Fanatic is primarily a story about a doubly transgressive relationship - a romance between the Pakistan-born Parvez (Om Puri), who is married, and Bettina (Rachel Griffiths), a white sex-worker. Since its release in 1997, however, critical discourse around the film has gradually deprioritized the love story and foregrounded the character of Farid (Akbar Kurtha), Parvez' son, who adopts a militant form of Islam. My Son has been variously invoked in discussions of the September 11, 2001 terror attacks, the American taliban fighter John Walker Lindh, and Richard Reid, the failed 'shoe-bomber'.6 These usages invest the film (sometimes explicitly, sometimes implicitly) with documentary or quasidocumentary insight into the motivations of men like the July 7 bombers. A synergy between Prasad's and Kureishi's concerns and the needs of the (cultural) establishment to comprehend (in the senses of both understanding and inclusion or - less neutrally - containment) minority experience is further suggested by the BBC's and Arts Council's financial backing of the film. And Kureishi himself, reluctant in the past to speak for the experiences of 'British Asians' (an expectation he has dubbed the 'brown man's burden'), appears increasingly willing to assume the role of informant, and encourages the elision of fiction into fact in discussions about contemporary society. His The Word and the Bomb, published in the aftermath of the bombings, juxtaposes journalism and story dating from 1986 onwards and including My Son the Fanatic, about 'the conflict between Islam and Western liberalism'.7 Among these are reflections on the London bombings and extracts from travel writings about Kureishi's visit to Bradford, the unnamed setting for My Son the Fanatic, in the 1980s.8 But what images of Britain, and more specifically of Islam, does My Son project? This essay offers a critique of the film's presentation of 4 For example, United 93 (Paul Greengrass, 2006) and 11'09"01 - September 21, in which eleven international directors (including Amos Gitai, Ken Loach, Samira Makhmalbaf, Sean Penn and Danis Tancovic) address the impact of the attacks from different points of view around the world. 5 The story was published first in the New 'Yorker, then subsequently in the 1997 collection Love In a Elite Time. It was most recently reprinted in Hanif Kureishi, The Word and the Bomb, London: Faber & Faber, 2005, 63-74. 6 Seaton 2004 discusses Reid and Lindh in relation to the film. Dohra Ahmad's work on Salman Rushdie's 1996 novel The Moor's Last Sigh references Kureishi's story as an example of recent fiction that can 'teach us about fundamentalism' after September 11, 2001 (Ahmad 2005,1). 7 Kureishi 2005, 11. For earlier discussion of the expectation that the work of non-elite créatives should reflect and advocate community concerns see Kureishi 1995, 6. 8 For a discussion of the setting of the film see Wright 2006, 119-23. For an account of Kureishi as tourist in Yorkshire see Schmid 1997.

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religion, mapping it onto the construction of Muslim 'fundamentalists' as the first folk devils of the twenty-first century.9 In considering the attractiveness of My Son for public conversations about religion and identity, it also questions impulses inherent in the discourses of multiculturalism and roots-based identities.

A. Imag(in)ing Islam My Son the Fanatic's representation of religion distinguishes it from many contemporary screen images of 'British-Asians'.10 While Bend it Like Beckham (Gurinder Chadha, 2002) and East is East (Damien O'Donnell, 1999) depict the children of immigrants rebelling against parental conservatism, it features the son of a liberal father who finds meaning and purpose in Islam. The opening scene of the film places Farid, both literally and figuratively, on the threshold of the English middle classes: he visits the home of his white fiancée, Madeleine Fingerhut, and Parvez' conversation with Madeleine's father, a police inspector, suggests a future career in accountancy. But not long afterwards, Farid ends the relationship and begins selling his possessions. Taxi-driver Parvez (his confusion evoked stylistically by use of a handheld camera and shots that place him outside the golden third of the frame) suspects drug abuse, but it is soon clear that Farid's obsession is a new-found faith. In the family home, the sounds of Parvez' jazz records are punctuated by those of Arabic prayer. Parvez later follows Farid, who has by now swapped Western clothes for salwar kameez and kufi hat, to the mosque, and sees him clash with community elders. The strategy of mediating Farid's journey in piecemeal fashion, through Parvez' perspective, is important to the film's interpretation of Islam. The incremental adoption of religious rituals stresses the constructedness of his identity: symbols, ideas and behaviours are adopted and adapted in order to articulate a social self at once conservative and contemporary. Not insignificantly, it depends on modern technology; in a telling move, Farid uses an instructional video to learn Arabic prayer. Two extended dialogues articulate Farid's philosophy. In the first, he justifies the broken engagement: FARID: Can you put keema [minced meat] with strawberries? In the end our cultures, they cannot be mixed. PARVEZ: Everything is mingling already together, this thing and the other. 9 'A condition, episode, person or group of persons emerges to become defined as a threat to societal values and interests; its nature is presented in a stylised and stereotypical fashion by the mass media; the moral barricades are manned by editors, bishops, politicians and other right-thinking people; socially accredited experts pronounce their diagnoses and solutions; ways of coping are evolved or (more often) resorted to; the condition then disappears, submerges or deteriorates and becomes more visible7 (Cohen 1980, 9). 10 Problems associated with the use of this kind of terminology are discussed later.

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FARID: Some of us are wanting summat more besides muddle ... belief, purity, belonging to the past. I won't bring up my children in this country. And later, when Parvez tries to convince Farid to return to his former lifestyle: FARID: They tell us to integrate, but they live in pornography and filth and tell us how backward we are ... Their society's soaked in sex .... Accountancy ... is capitalism and taking advantage .... It is you who have swallowed the white and Jewish propaganda that there is nothing to our lives but the empty accountancy for things. Farid's Islam is positioned as a separationism - undermined linguistically by his Yorkshire dialect - linked to a desire for clarity and the rebuilding of a connection with an imagined past (an idealized, Islamically pure Pakistan). It offers an alternative to the ideologies of assimilation and capitalism, and is antisemitic.11 When a Lahore maulvi comes to stay in the family's home, Farid's faith is further radicalized and eventually, it mutates into violent activity. Encouraged by the teacher, Farid embarks on a campaign against local sex-workers, including Bettina, a white prostitute who regularly uses Parvez' cab and with whom he has recently begun a love affair. The tensions spill over into the fire-bombing of a brothel-house, which constitutes the dramatic climax of the film. If Farid's choice is a modern one, the film also presents it as an intelligible reaction to a young man's experiences of exclusion. The lukewarm response of Madeleine's parents to the couple's engagement sets the tone for a racism, by turns overt and insidious, that pervades society in the film and suggests that the barriers to integration are not exclusively or even primarily of Farid's own making. My Son hints, too, that in a desire to assimilate, Parvez (who, in interactions with his son and wife Minoo, typically speaks much of material security, and rarely of values or feelings) has repressed much of his own self, and has consequently failed to offer Farid the inner resources that might have enabled him to deal with negative prejudice. The film's attractiveness for those who invoke it post-7/7 and similar tragedies undoubtedly lies in its efforts not just to describe, but also to theorize 'fundamentalism'.12 Events like the London bombings or more generally, the persistence/re-emergence within Europe of conservative and traditionalist forms of Islam, throw into sharp relief some important challenges to liberalism: how far can it respond to separationist identities whose existence it facilitates, but which are themselves opposed to the 11 According to Kureishi 2005, 87, 'Every self confessed fundamentalist I have met was anti-Semitic/ 12 The scare quotes around 'fundamentalism7 in this essay reflect both the common contemporary use of the term as a form of opprobrium and my own dis-ease at its unhelpfully homogenizing use as a description of a range of diverse ideologies and movements.

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premise of multiculturalism? Like Kureishi, self-critical liberals realize that their values are defensible but not universal and that they are generative of difficult contradictions ('tolerance of the intolerant') yet the most readily apparent alternative - assimilation by compulsion - is unpalatable.13 My Son the Fanatic's appeal lies not in a neutral account of its subject matter but in an approach that privileges liberalism and ultimately reassures its advocates. Significantly, in other writings Kureishi has dubbed the turn to Islam 'an aberration', and described London mosques as strange alien environments, '... nothing like any church I'd attended. The scenes, to me, were extraordinary.'14 As Stuart Hall observes, any act of representation always embodies or otherwise implicates the position/s of enunciation.15 As its title implies, My Son the Fanatic is structured (narratively, stylistically) around Parvez' subjectivity. His is the compelling, energetic presence dominating the narrative, by turns anxious for his son, egotistical, or playful. Farid's religion is always mediated through shots reflecting Parvez' point of view, a device which invites audiences to empathize, visually and otherwise, with the older man. When Parvez is unfaithful to Minoo and begins a relationship with Bettina, this is presented as a positive development (evidenced by the contrast between Parvez' difficult conversation with Farid in Fizzy's restaurant, and his easy intimacy with Bettina in the same venue) and the audience is encouraged to accept his actions as a legitimate pursuit of individual (physical, emotional) happiness: What is there for me, yaar, but sitting behind the wheel without tenderness? That's it for me, is it, until I drop dead and not another human touch. ... Minoo has never given me satisfaction. Unlike Farid, Parvez has no certainties. Although the end of the film, in which he and Bettina playfully imagine a future life together, suggests the necessity of compromise between personal 'satisfaction' and the needs of others, for much of My Son Parvez is a socially disengaged individualist, avoiding connection with community of any kind. When Minoo wants to use the lavatory in the Fingerhuts' house, he forbids her, lest Madeleine's parents 'think we are Bengalis' - remarks evoking white racist assumptions and the persistence of divisions within the 'British Asian' community between 'Bangladeshis' and 'Pakistanis'. At the mosque, Parvez has to be reminded to remove his shoes, suggesting broader estrangement from religious and cultural mores. Describing himself to German businessman Schitz as a 'gentleman', he dubs his fellow taxi-drivers 'low-lifes' and 'barely educated'. In short, Parvez is a snob.

13 See further Parekh 2005,196-7. 14 "The Rainbow Sign', in Kureishi 2005,21; The Carnival of Culture', in Kureishi 2005,98. 15 Hall 1990, 222. Ruvani Ranasinha, influenced by the work of Tariq Modood, notes similarly that the film reifies an already reified group ('fundamentalists') while reinscribing liberalism as the norm (Ranasinha 2002, 82).

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In presenting Islam only as lived by young militants like Farid - or rather, only as this life is perceived by a disappointed secular parent the film perpetuates stereotypes of the religion as monolithic, and of young Muslim males as dangerous extremists. Diversity surfaces only briefly in a mosque elder's words to Parvez: These boys are not welcome. ... They think everyone but them is corrupt and foolish. ... They are always fighting for radical actions on many subjects. ... It is irritating us all here, yaar. But they have something these young people - they're not afraid of the truth. They stand up for things. We never did that. Aside from this speech, the film offers no interpretation of Islam to act as a foil to militancy. Even here, the implication is that Farid and his friends represent a purer, more committed form of religion; a stronger attachment to 'the truth'. By offering no sustained Muslim critique of Farid's position, My Son contributes to the elision of 'Islam' into 'fundamentalism' in popular Western discourses. Parvez' more liberal position is not idealized, but its normative status is confirmed by the film. Just as Farid falls under the sway of the maulvi, so Parvez is corrupted by a visiting foreigner, Schitz, whose interests, both professional (he intends to turn a disused factory into a shopping mall) and private (he buys Bettina's services as a prostitute and has Parvez organize 'sex parties' for his business associates) make him a figure for the soulless consumerism Farid terms 'empty accountancy'. Yet My Son sidesteps confrontation with many of the difficulties inherent in liberal preferences. In making racism the sole driver for Farid's actions, it suggests that the problem lies not with Parvez' secular views ('I said goodbye to next life ... and said hello ... to work') or in other individual or structural realms, but in the fact that few of the family's white neighbours share Parvez' conviction that 'there are many ways of being a good man'. The challenges associated with the long-term coexistence of competing or contradictory worldviews are bypassed when in the wake of the attack on the brothel, Farid and Minoo (separately) leave England for Pakistan. The latter's exit neatly diminishes qualms (on his or the viewer's part) in relation to Parvez' ongoing pursuit of the relationship with Bettina. The film's lack of interest in Minoo, save as a canvas onto which conservative Muslim values are projected ('Many [women] lack belief, and therefore reason/ Farid tells his father), both lends support to popular prejudices about Islam as bound up with women's subjugation and queries My Son's liberal credentials. More importantly for this discussion, Farid's departure renders unnecessary the hard task of constructive dialogue between opposing positions, and suggests that if one only keeps faith with one's individual dreams, a swift resolution of life's problems will result.

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B. Spiritual teleology The film's symbolic expulsion of the militant Muslim - the persistent reminder par excellence of liberalism's limitations16 - is a supreme piece of wish-fulfilment, a fantasy. My Son's imagining of Pakistan is also a new Orientalism: the unseen East, as both the maulvi's origin and Farid's destination, is a source of fascination and danger. More specifically, the polarization that the film establishes (liberal-secular Britain/ conservative-religious 'East') speaks to the dilemmas underpinning this volume. Narratively, the film, like Farid, is seduced by the proposition that the Muslim's true home is not on British soil. This cuts against the reputation of Kureishi's work (as feted by Hall and others) as exemplifying diaspora aesthetics - representational strategies that challenge essentialist thinking and emphasize 'journey over arrival, mobility over fixity, routes over roots'.17 Its figuring of the return (literally in Minoo's case, symbolically7 in Farid's) of the Muslim to South Asia also echoes the contradictor} impulses detectable in much contemporary political discourse on difference and, indeed, in a phrase like 'the religious roots of contemporary European identity'. Like My Son, political rhetoric and academic discourses alike are at times quick to align 'religion' with roots-based conceptions of identity. In Britain, 'religion' (or 'faith' - the two are often elided one into another) has largely replaced 'race' as the principle around which difference is organized. The three Labour governments since 1997 have expressed a commitment to pluralism and have actively enhanced the visibility of particular kinds of religious identities through measures such as the promotion of 'faith schools' and the introduction of a voluntary religion question into the 2001 census. The Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006, in effect an extension of part 3 of the Public Order Act 1986 to cover not just racism but also attempts to stir up hatred on the basis of an individual's religion (or lack of it), is part of a larger conceptual shift from 'ethnic minorities' to 'faith communities' - and is also, perhaps, reflective of a new construal of religion in essentializing terms, as a given. Recent policy initiatives like the Home Office sponsored Faith Communities Capacity Building Fund propose work with 'faith-based groups' as a vehicle for the furtherance of 'community cohesion': they recognize that some previously marginalized groups have responded to their experiences of exclusion with vigorous reassertions of identities of origin (on which theme conservative Islam is but one variation) and want to replace or modify this strategy with a commitment to a 'tolerant society', and engagement with 'public authorities'.18 It is not, then, simply Kureishi's and Prasad's willingness to explain as 16 Parekh 2005,197. 17 Hall 1990, 222. 18 See for example the Faith Communities Capacity Building Fund Guidance Notes published by the Community Development Foundation, London, 2005. All quotations in the main text are from page 1 of this document, which is available online at www.cdf.org.uk/ SITE/UPLOAD/DOCUMENT/Guidance.pdf, accessed 06.07.2006.

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well as depict 'fundamentalism' that makes the film useful to those commentating on recent terror threats. The type of explanation offered has also been important in determining My Son's attractiveness. The film establishes its realist credentials on various levels. Narratively, it references several well-known incidents, including the Bradford riots of 1995 (in which a Manningham brothel was razed to the ground) and the appearance in the same year of racist 'comedian' Bernard Manning at a Greater Manchester Police dinner (in the film, local policemen laugh as Parvez becomes the butt of racist jokes made by a comic in 'Manningham's Nightclub', to which he has driven Bettina and Schitz).19 Stylistically, the use of hand-held camera and point-of-view shots (discussed earlier) give the film an air of psychological or emotional verity. The assertion of the importance of religious roots is a similar technique; it at once taps into and shores up contemporary common-sense understandings of identity. There are, however, a number of difficulties with such models. The notion of roots (on screen, in policy) runs the risk of reifying cultures, of freezing the agreements and differences between groups and individuals. As an explanation of 'militancy' or 'fundamentalism' it is weak, and as a strategy for preventing or minimizing future conflicts it is, therefore, likely to fail. Conceived as an alternative to the homogenizing impulses of assimilationism and racism, multiculturalism in Britain today is nonetheless also a strategy of containment. It institutionalizes and guarantees the status and survival of communities of difference, but in doing so also boundaries them. Even more inclusive-sounding hyphenated identities ('Anglo-Jewish', 'London-Irish', 'British-Hindu', 'African-American') remain grounded, conceptually, in essentializing notions about culture, identity and ethnicity, and factor out other forms of heterogeneity.20 The label 'British-Muslim' seemingly posits a simple association between place and consciousness (Britishness) that is disrupted or contradicted by the othering 'Muslim' dimension. Implicit also in such descriptions, as Paul Gilroy argues, is the suggestion that hybridity is of value not in itself, but only as a vehicle for the residues of the anterior purities that supposedly combined to create it. The myth of community (by this phrase, I do not mean that 'community' does not exist) that lies at multiculturalism's heart has wide appeal as an invocation of stability in troubled times. Yet it also runs the risk of reducing individuals to bearers of the limited differences that multiculturalism invites them to celebrate. The complexities and subtleties of self and interaction are swept aside: identity is reified, a 'thing' to be transmitted and displayed.21 Belongingness may be articulated in the present (like 'contemporary European identity') but its elusive (and herein lies its symbolic power) 19 The Bradford riots were themselves partly triggered by the impact of the successful television series Band of Gold, which focused attention on prostitution in the city. I discuss this in more detail in Wright 2006,126-7. 20 See further Ayse S. Conglar, 'Hyphenated identities and the limits of "culture" ', in T. Modood and P. Werbner (eds), The Politics of Multiculturalism in the New Europe: Racism, Identity and Community, London and New Jersey, Zed Books, 1997, especially 172-3. 21 Gilroy 1997, 323, 307.

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referent is an authoritative point that lies, like a 'primordial history' or a 'biological inheritance', in the unscrutinizable past (in, for example, 'religious roots'). Moreover, as suggested earlier, the displacement of ethnic and political difference by 'religion' as 'root' (as in the identification of the 'British Muslim') tends towards placing religion in the category of a given and affording it a degree of protection from the processes of historical critique and political redefinition.22 Of course, some religious adherents share this perception of religion's character as inherently bound up with a particular group of people, the identity of which is largely immune to political or other contingencies, but the task of critical scholarship is to tease apart and critique such strategies, not to buy into them unquestioningly. in this respect, the flaws inherent in the current emphasis on 'faith communities' as a strategy for understanding or dealing with 'fundamentalism' are apparent. Like the 'fundamentalists" conception of divine mission or G-d-given purposes, the multiculturalists' tendency towards making communities the source of rights ultimately engenders exclusion and oppression: it fails really to value difference, to recognize the presence of the 'many' within - or apart from - the 'one'. Thus in Britain a number of groups, including the Muslim Council of Britain (MCB), the Muslim Association of Britain, the Muslim Public Affairs Committee (both of these groups more radical than the MCB) and the British Muslim Forum (which regards the MCB as too influenced by Saudi Arabian Islam) currently vie to speak for the 'Muslim community'. But none of these plays a significant role in the lives of many Britons who selfidentify as Muslim. The Board of Deputies of British Jews, the key player in the public representation and perception of the 'Jewish position' on various issues, draws its membership primarily from the ranks of centrist Orthodoxy and its constitution is predicated on the far from uncontested view that a particular form of religious expression (synagogue membership) is the key determinant of affiliation to Jewish culture or community. Above all, what multiculturalism cannot comprehend is the constantly shifting nature of identity, the malleability of the self, and the ways in which, under late capitalism, it is articulated via the practices of consumption, simulation and representation. Consider, for example, the possibilities that the Internet offers, the ease with which one may assume a series of virtual personae through role-playing games and the myriad forms of non-contiguous communication that it has made possible. Arguably, rather than thinking of identity as something rooted, permanent and essential, we need to think of identity or perhaps more appropriately, of identifications, as moments, positionings, or sutures made within the discourses of history and culture.23

22 Gilroy 1997, 311. 23 Hall 1990, 226.

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Melante J. Wright G Roots, routes and rhizomes

This essay has suggested that whether they are pressed into the service of nationalism and ethnic division, or of multiculturalism, conceptualizations of identity that depend on the invocation of religious 'roots' simply will not do. Stuart Hall proposes a preference for 'routes' over 'roots', a terminological shift reflecting an approach that privileges movement and change, as opposed to soil and settlement, as formative for contemporary identity. As noted earlier, such an approach is, for Hall, linked with the metaphorical use of 'diaspora' as a framework for understanding nonessentialist articulations of difference. In this context, diaspora refers not simply to relational networks produced (like the 'Armenian diaspora' or the 'Jewish diaspora') by forced dispersal but more widely to modes of affiliation and identity that query the primacy of the nation state; it opens up the possibility of renewed attention to blends, exchanges and crossovers. However, popular and academic discourses on diaspora struggle to distinguish themselves from those of the nation state. While not all diaspora consciousnesses emphasize the desirability of physical resettlement in a land of 'origin', as Khachig Tölöyan argues, they are typically characterized by a 're-turn, a repeated turning [via political commitment, imagination, travel, cultural production] to 24the concept and/or relation of the homeland and other diasporan kin'. Perhaps especially given that Hall's articulation of diaspora (specifically, of diaspora as an aesthetic) is formed around an analysis of another Kureishi film, My Beautiful Laundrette, in such theorizations some insight into My Son's contradictory conceptualization of identity may be found. Mindful of the political character and consequences of different intellectual models, Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari complain, 'We're tired of trees. We should stop believing in trees, roots, and radicles. They've made us suffer too much/25 Bound up with this 'suffering' is the 'binary logic [that] is the spiritual reality of the root-tree'.26 In other words, as this chapter has suggested, roots-based conceptualizations of identity struggle to account for fluidity and multiplicity, for the state/s we're in. Arborescent metaphors go hand-in-hand with hierarchical structure, extreme stratification, and linear thinking. In seeking to understand their subject matter, they subject it to violence. Deleuze and Guattari's main targets (if one can speak of their book in such terms) are psychiatry and psychoanalysis, but their advocacy of the figure of the rhizome as an alternative to roots-discourse is of value in approaching the shifting terrain of contemporary identities and identifications. In botanical terms, a rhizome is a horizontal, usually subterranean, plant stem that sends out roots and shoots from its nodes. Used figuratively, it refers to 24 Quoted in Desai 2004,19. 25 Deleuze and Guattari 1987,15. 26 Deleuze and Guattari 1987, 5.

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an a-centred, non-hierarchical, nonsignifying system without a General and without an organising memory or central automaton, defined solely by a circulation of states .... to be rhizomorphous is to produce stems and filaments that seem to be roots, or better yet connect with them by penetrating the trunk, but put them to strange new uses.27 The rhizome invites us, when considering phenomena, to attend to their vibrancy, their movement and their heterogeneity - and to be aware of the links, the points of connection between 'the best and the worst'. The rhizome includes 'potato and couchgrass, or the weed'.28 Just as Khan expresses himself through pre-existing cultural forms (his film deploys genre conventions as much as any) so Kureishi's work has been feted by journalists and commentators, who invest it with documentary insight into the character and motivations of individuals who have linked their acts of violence to the practice of Islam. But this chapter has suggested that its appeal does not indicate his reliability as an insider-guide to the world of the bombers, but instead attests the mainstream character of Kureishi's liberalism. (Similar observations might be made about the taken-for-grantedness of My Son's displacement of white racism on to 'the North' of England, a territory removed from the centres of political power and national media production.) Like the contemporary practice of multiculturalism Kureishi falls into roots thinking, tracing simplified lines of cause-effect, origin-destiny, usthem. Re-viewing this essay's concerns rhizomorphously, it is not the religious or other roots of identity that command our attentions, but rather its unceasing reconfigurations in the present. Unsettlingly, perhaps, there is then no single 'answer7 to the question posed by the actions of the 7/7 bombers. Concomitantly, there are no fail-safe prophylactics. Strategies of distanciation, which seek to deny the 'Britishness' (as I write this, on the first anniversary of 7/7,1 am struck by the othering quality of a radio presenter's references to Khan, Tanweer, Lindsay and Hussain as 'British-born' or 'second-generation British citizens') or dismiss without critical enquiry the Islamic selfidentification of the bombers are comforting but illusory. The threads of causality are multiple and (like the bindweed in my garden) if broken at one point, may start up again along the old lines, or on a new one. Unlike My Son the Fanatic and like the rhizome, the bombers' story is one of multiple starting-points; its telling implicates not just 'others', but all our selves.

27 Deleuze and Guattari 1987,15, 21. 28 Deleuze and Guattari 1987, 7.

Only Connect: A Case Study of the Influence of the English Church and the Non-Catholic Cults in the Florence of 1 the Risorgimento. Penny Mittler

A. Introduction The Florence of the Risorgimento addressed the diverse needs and rights of its excluded citizens. Today's Florence must address the needs and rights of people living in its midst in hidden, marginalized subcultures of exclusion. This case study of the influence of the non-Catholic cults in Florence in the nineteenth century holds up a mirror to the Florence of today and offers some positive reflections on the religious roots/routes of contemporary European society. Like so many other European cities, Florence lives with the combination of managed immigration and the far more difficult to manage consequences of porous national borders. Parts of the outlying districts of Florence are home to sweatshops that, together with organized prostitution and drug trading, are recognized causes for concern. They bring together modern social issues of the hidden economy, illegal immigration and the abuse of many of those illicit migrant workers. As elsewhere in Europe, these are issues that have far-reaching implications for housing, health, education and child welfare and for maintaining the social cohesion and 'stakeholder' identity for all citizens that underpin democratic society. For people caught in the traps of hidden-ness, exploitation and recent arrival in a radically different environment, participation in the organized religion indigenous to their own culture can prove difficult. Even where there is tolerance and encouragement of religious diversity, the freedom or the opportunity to express collective worship and practice alongside others who share a similar faith can be limited by nonavailability or by factors such as language and access difficulties.2 In Florence outreach services offered by many different religious groups offer a bridge between the culturally familiar and the alien experience of day-to-day life in the European underclass. It is important to understand the role of self-help organizations and volunteers in Italian 1 'Only Connect' is the theme of E. M. Forster's 1910 novel, Howard's End. 2 Fürst 2005.

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society. The voluntary sector provides much of the primary support to citizens, often organized on the basis of local communities. The Italian Constitution recognizes and encourages the contribution of these voluntary organizations while regional governments and local councils provide legislative and logistical support.3 Although many local community organizations are secular, often they are groups with a clear gospel-led conviction of concern for the plight of others. Today, after Vatican II, as well as agencies from the established Church, there are Roman Catholic lay communities such as the Focolare movement and the internationally renowned Community of Sant'Egidio.4 In Florence though, at least historically, the evangelicals have led the way in community provision, influencing today's voluntary sector. Loose alliances of politically aligned groupings, self-help networks and young people promoting sustainable social projects here and abroad are augmented by religious groups from all the world's major religions. With the city authorities these groups provide safety-net frontline services for the city's most vulnerable inhabitants. The varied and voluntary support networks create wide-ranging and valuable opportunities to form friendships.5 Their diversity offers newcomers, secondand third-generation incomers and ancestrally deep-rooted Florentines many ways to transcend difference and come together in a web of connection, a 'space of un-coerced human association', that might appropriately be termed civil society.6 B. Hidden solidarities Such 'coming together' creates temporary but important personal communities or 'micro social worlds'.7 Pahl, a British sociologist, describes these personal communities as 'hidden solidarities' that lend (British) society its social cohesion, even where the local order might itself emerge from conflict. His research suggests that people live in enduring personal communities, of various types, of those Mends and members of their family who are important to them. It is these friendship forms, made in settings such as a place of worship, a sports club or workplace, and built up around altruism and reciprocity, that he describes as hidden solidarities. Across (British) society, 'micro-social worlds are inextricably linked with macro-social worlds'. These same people who form close and enduring local solidarities are also part of much larger groupings that inform and shape the wider political dynamic, such as trades unions, pressure groups and political parties.8 Deleuze and Guattari describe solidarities feeding into wider networks 3 4 5 6 7 8

Regione Toscana 2006. Arcidiocesi di Firenze 1996. Typical listings: Fuori binario (April-May 2006); etnie, www.etnie.org. Walzer 1998, 291. Pahl 2006, 2. Pahl 2006, 4.

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as 'machinic assemblages of desire and collective assemblages of enunciation'.9 They see these social structures as a rhizome-like 'mapping' of multiplicities, resembling couch grass in the spreading and outcropping of ideas from one seat to another. The rhizome constitutes linear multiplicities with n dimensions ... which can be laid out on a plane of consistency. When a multiplicity of this nature changes dimension, it necessarily changes in nature as well, undergoes a metamorphosis. [It] has multiple entryways and exits and its own lines of flight.10 Throughout Europe in the nineteenth century, liberal solidarities ensured the interconnectivity of just such a plane of consistency with remarkably little bloodshed. Associations of liberally minded thinkers achieved national, religious and political emancipation and improved socioeconomic conditions across European society. This study illustrates how religion has played an integral part in both structure and change.

C. The influence of hidden solidarities in the Risorgimento Informal networks formed by the ceti medi or 'middle orders' are considered by historians to have played a significant role in the emergent Italian nation.11 'In the absence of effective political representation, a parallel public space based on clubs and journals often developed.'12 Educational, cultural and philanthropic societies, agricultural and scientific organizations, as well as more explicitly economic bodies such as chambers of commerce, were established, 'providing a useful means of inculcating liberal ideas'.13 They attracted an increasingly diverse membership and quite often one sees the same names overlapping in a variety of settings. In Florence religious nonconformists from diverse backgrounds, intellectuals, city bankers and landowners came together in liberal and/or religious personal communities that were to prove highly influential in the gestation and early years of the Risorgimento.14 Márchese Cosimo Ridolfi, a member of one of Florence's leading political families and a senator in the 1860 government, was an educationalist and pioneer in agrarian reform. Barone Bettino Ricasoli was another leading politician and member of an old Tuscan family whose name became synonymous with agrarian reform, particularly viticulture. He supported the right to freedom of worship and the study of the Bible in the vernacular, although he never relinquished his own Roman Catholicism.15 Conté Fiero Guicciardini, also from a long-established 9 Deleuze and Guattari 2004, 25. 10 Deleuze and Guattari 2004, 23. 11 Lyttelton 1991; Riall 1994. 12 Riall 1994, 35. 13 Holt 1970,114. 14 Spini 1988. 15 'CR.M/ 1988.

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and politically influential Florentine family, was to convert to Protestantism in 1836 and later founded the Italian Christian Brethren. The Swiss-Italian journalist and leading liberal thinker Gian Piero Vieusseux was an influential member of several of these bodies, and his work was both a link and a catalyst.16 From 1821 to 1833 he published a journal, Antología, that attracted articles by political thinkers such as Mazzini and the Florentine liberal Capponi.17 His Reading Rooms and circulating library in Florence, the Gabinetto Vieusseux, which are still in existence today, became the hub of intellectual support for social, economic and political change.18 In 1827, together with Cosimo Ridolfi and Raffaello Lambruschini, he founded the Giornale Agrario Toscano.19 Lambruschini, a Catholic, was to be very supportive of the right to freedom of religious expression, in particular lending his patronage to the Waldensians, a Protestant sect.20 Vieusseux was also a Protestant and when, in 1822, the first Swiss congregation was established he was one of its founding members and trustees.

D. The emergence of non-Catholic cults in Florence After the Congress of Vienna in 1815, much of Tuscany was ruled by the House of Lorraine under the protection of the Austrians. There was a significant foreign diplomatic presence at the Court in Florence and merchants, traders, poets and artists, of whom some were well-known liberal' English supporters of all things Italian, continued to arrive from across Europe, settling into interconnected expatriate communities. Because the public practice of 'non-Catholic' forms of worship was considered to be contrary to the interests of the state, the opportunities for the rites of religious worship to which many were accustomed were extremely limited. Even non-Catholic burial grounds were scarce. The Swiss and British congregations met at first in private homes. The longerestablished British congregation met at the residence of the British Minister while the Swiss community congregated in the home of a banker from Geneva. Thanks to the intervention of the king of Prussia, the Swiss were able to nominate their pastor to be the chaplain of the Prussian Legation to the court at Florence. In 1826 Grand Duke Leopold II granted permission for the chaplain to conduct acts of worship in a private chapel to the south of the river Arno in Florence. The Italian Waldensians also established a presence there and it was in this Protestant enclave that Guicciardini converted in 1836. The Christian Brethren church that he later cofounded, the Chiesa Cristiani dei Fratelli, is one of two Italian 'free evangelical' churches that had their origins in the Florence of that time. 16 17 18 19 20

Holt 1970. Procacci 1991; Spini 1988. Hoare 2005. Tuscan Agricultural Journal. 'CR.M.' 1988.

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E. Liberal Florence 1828-50 As elsewhere in Europe, this was generally a period of increasing liberal influence in Tuscany. In 1828 the English Legation was extended the same right of worship as the Swiss and shared their chapel. By 1833, with both congregations rapidly expanding, worship was transferred to larger premises nearby. In 1843 the English chaplaincy was formally constituted as an Anglican church and between 1844 and 1846 the first English church, Holy Trinity, was constructed. There was also a degree of emancipation for Jews. At about the same time that the foreign legations were gaining permission for a form of public worship, the Jews of Florence were granted property rights. Many of their wealthiest men, the banker Raffaello Finzi for example, joined forces with prominent Florentines such as the banker Emanuale Fenzi, to form land, property and civil engineering consortiums.21 Their business allies also included Capponi, Ridolfi and Guicciardini, whose thinking was liberal, both politically and socially, and Ricasoli, who in 1861 was to follow Cavour as first minister of the United Italian Kingdom, under Victor Emmanuel II. Their circles also included Protestant foreigners such as G. P. Vieusseux and the British banker John Leland Maquay. Maquay had first settled in Florence in the 1820s, and, like Vieusseux, was involved from the outset in his expatriate community's church.22 'This contact with the Swiss & Anglo-Florentines brought a stream of Protestant Consciousness to bear on the city in a way peculiar to Florence at that time .. ./23 It is impossible to separate the ebb and flow of discourse and influence of these networks. Though there were multiple points of entry, they were all the time increasing the dimensions of the liberal plane of consistency. The threads of connection linked Jew, Catholic and Protestant, aristocrat and artisan, as events in 1851 were to demonstrate vividly. In 1848 Grand Duke Leopold II signed a Statute of Rights granting many new freedoms including a free press. The first article declared, The religion of the Roman catholic and apostolic Church is the only State religion but the non-Catholic cults in existence at the present time are hereby authorised in accordance with the provisions of this law.24 Between 1848 and 1850 Florence opened her gates to Swiss chocolatemakers and teachers, pastry cooks and preachers.25 Influential Waldensian pastors, supported by Lambruschini, attracted hundreds of Italians to the Swiss chapel where there was scriptural teaching and Bible study in the vernacular.26 With a free press that also facilitated a 21 22 23 24 25 26

Salvador! 2001. Price 2006. Spmi 1988,194. 'C.R.M.' 1988, 202. 'CR.M/ 1988, 202. 'CR.M/ 1988, 202.

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combative political journalism,27 evangelical texts and Bibles were openly circulated. An Englishman living in Florence was permitted to found a branch of the Bible Society and to print 3,000 copies of the New Testament in Italian, and Massimo d'Azeglio, later to become Prime Minister of Piedmont and advisor to King Victor Emmanuel II, published a tract in Florence in 1848 in support of Jewish emancipation, On the civil emancipation of the Israelites.2* In 1850, the Tuscan Chamber of Deputies, many of them members of the above networks, approved legislation for an Italian Constitution.29 Threatened by the turn of events the Grand Duke fled Tuscany and for a brief period Tuscany was ruled by a triumvirate of liberal ministers. Pope Pius IX promised to excommunicate anyone who sought to promote the legislation and, supported by the Papal States, Austrian troops marched into Florence and restored the Grand Duke to power. A short-lived success for liberalism, the action of the deputies anticipated the sweeping change that was to follow within the decade.

F. Limitations on religious and political freedoms The Curia advised the Duke to prohibit Tuscans from entering the foreign chapels. The sale and distribution of Bibles in Italian was again banned and it was illegal to read or comment on the Bible in study groups outside the legally recognized church of one's 'native' community.30 In April 1851, Grand Duke Leopold II signed a Concordat with the Vatican repealing the 1848 Statute of Rights and once again denying religious freedoms to all non-Catholics.31 In the first eight months of 1851, in a series of police roundups, hundreds of Tuscans were imprisoned simply for studying the Bible together in Italian. Some were seized in raids on the Swiss chapel and the English church, others in private premises.32 In May a small group of Florentines, including Count Guicciardini and a cashier from the Fenzi bank, were caught in private Bible study. Despite an international outcry against their arrest, led by the Evangelical Alliance in London, Guicciardini was exiled.33 A few months later, in what might have been expected to have been a case that passed without notice, a young Florentine working couple was arrested and imprisoned for hosting a Bible study group in the boarding house that they ran. They were charged and imprisoned. Following the introduction of a new Statute of Limitations in May 1852, the charge against the couple, Francesco and Rosa Madia, became one of 'anti-Catholic 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Procacd 1991. Salvadori 2001; Holt 1970. 'CR.M/ 1988, 203. Artini 2002. Salvadori 2001. Artini 2002. Anon, in // Testimonio 1988.

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propaganda and causing outrage to the religion of the state'.34 They were tried a month later and found guilty. Each received a long prison sentence and Francesco was also sentenced to solitary confinement with hard labour. An international backlash followed. Supported by Queen Victoria, the British government, which had secured the right for the Swiss pastor to visit the couple in jail, now made a formal protest. The Prussian Royal Family also protested. The American President promised a gunboat to transport the Madiai to England should the sentence be commuted to exile. The Evangelical Alliance weighed in again, convening a commission of enquiry in Florence. The case against the two working-class 'heretics', as the law classed them, was seen as every bit as damaging to the Catholic Church as that against the influential Count Guicciardini, and the Pope was forced to intervene. In March 1853 the sentences were commuted to exile.35 G. Dissent and liberalism in England 1845-80 While the British establishment was involved in the outcry against the suppression of 'nonconformist' religious expression in Florence, its own Church of England was also facing up to the implications of dissent from followers of the Oxford Movement. The movement, also known as 'Tractarian' for the manner in which it promoted its views, was bitterly opposed by many churchmen, but the line of argument became increasingly persuasive to new generations of clergy, many of them in recently created Anglican parishes of industrial cities such as Manchester and Stoke on Trent. Between 1845 and 1865 the controversy surrounding these 'Ritualists', or Anglo-Catholics as they became known, grew increasingly vitriolic. The illustrator Tenniel lampooned them in a sustained series of cartoons in the satirical magazine Punch, and his stereotypes of 'effeminate' Anglo-Catholic priest and masculine 'regular' churchman became widely recognized 'types'.36 A private visit made by Garibaldi to London in 1864 was hugely popular with both 'rough but law-abiding English people' and aristocratic circles.37 At a time when England's foreign policy was still embroiled in a Europe divided along the lines of religious allegiances, Garibaldi was hailed in the popular press and by much of the Establishment as a hero for his resistance to the extensive and deterministic political power of the papacy.38 Domestically, the question of Home Rule for Ireland was a source of considerable controversy, and the influence of the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland was seen as a very real threat to British policy and political stability. 34 35 36 37 38

// Testimonio 1988, 205. // Testimonio 1988, 205. Stoker 2006. Beales 1991, 191. Beales 1991.

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The satirical images of Anglo-Catholic priests in Punch, backed as they were by articles and correspondence in the popular press, and the deep political distrust of 'papists' that found such clear expression in the support for Garibaldi, contributed to a mounting hysteria which in turn stirred up considerable anger and resentment from Roman Catholics.39 Yet these outcroppings of religious identity and their impact on the Church of England can no more be taken in isolation from the sweeping social and political change around them than could those assaulting the previously unquestioned supremacy of the Roman Catholic Church in Italy. Domestic social justice, electoral reform and the Irish Question were significant policy issues with broad popular support and this period increasingly saw the election of governments committed to reform. By 1859 a newly formed Liberal Party led the government. The same year also saw the publication of two seminal works in the development of a liberal 'plane of consistency'. Charles Darwin's The Origin of Species led directly to a reaction against the literal acceptance of parts of the Bible and opened up discussion about scriptural 'truth' and the nature of and need for religious belief. John Stuart Mills' politico-philosophical work, On Liberty, was a hugely influential plea for freedom of thought and discussion.40 The first truly Liberal government of 1868-75, under the leadership of William Gladstone, legislated for significant social reform. The 1867 Reform Act extended the franchise to much of the newly emergent lower-middle-class workforce of the industrial towns and brought nonconformist and radical influence to bear on municipal structures and political leadership. The 1870 Education Act allowed for an almost universal, subsidized, primary education to be provided outside the traditional Church of England framework and in 1871 religious tests for university teachers and fellows were abolished, enabling nonconformist and Jewish educators to enter Oxford, Cambridge and Durham.41 As these examples show, positive and much-desired changes in social justice often had an inverse relationship to the status and power of the established Church. Although change did bring religious emancipation and a lasting liberal Zeitgeist, the concomitant undermining of traditional Anglican predominance contributed in the short term to the atmosphere of uncertainty. In 1867 a Royal Commission on Ritual was established. By 1870 the commissioners had published three volumes of findings and recommendations.42 Although the context for the Commission can be seen to have been the relationship of the Church of Ireland to the British establishment, its implications for the Ritualists of the Church of England were to prove highly significant. In 1869 Gladstone, himself an Anglo-Catholic, introduced a Bill to 39 40 41 42

Beales 1991. Trevelyan 1947. Trevelyan 1947. Irish University Press 2006.

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disestablish the Irish Protestant Church. Despite its appeal to Irish voters, nonconformists and Catholics and to the liberal and radical thinkers who supported freedom of worship and of expression, it was deeply unpopular with conservatives and with the Anglican Church and was passed only after the intervention of Queen Victoria. Traditional Anglicans and natural conservatives became deeply mistrustful of the increasing influence of both Anglo-Catholics and nonconformists and when, in February 1874, a General Election brought a Conservative victory, the Church of England wasted no time. A private member's Bill, the Act of Regulation of Public Worship, was introduced by the Archbishop of Canterbury in the Upper House. Informed by the reports of the Commission on Ritual and designed to add legal force to recent decisions of the Church Synod to restrict the activities of the Ritualists, it was given government backing and became law in August 1874. One of the first victims of the new Act was a popular Anglo-Catholic priest, Arthur Tooth. In 1876 rioting broke out in Tooth's parish of Hatcham, close to London. Thought by some to have been agitation paid for and perpetrated by outsiders, at its heart was the issue of the rite and ritual practised by the priest. In early 1877 he was arrested under the terms of the Act and spent four weeks in jail before a public outcry led to his release without trial.43

H. Widening the liberal plane of consistency: connections to Florence Tooth and others arrested under similar circumstances became known as 'martyrs'. Such public support represented a very English turnaround from the vitriolic years of the Punch cartoons and this continued over the course of the next century. Much of what these Anglo-Catholics had fought for so dearly was to become an integral part of today's global Anglicanism and is particularly valued for its integral place in the ecumenical dialogue with Rome. Then, however, the micro-world of this humble English religious 'martyr' was to connect in a very immediate way with that of the Florentine Protestant 'martyrs' of twenty years earlier, their stories combining to add to the liberal plane of consistency sweeping across Europe. Deleuze and Guattari describe the outcroppings or new multiplicities that result from rupture, repression and exile as lines of flight and deterritorialization. Far from destroying the rhizome, lines of flight connect and spread the plane of consistency yet further.44 In a literal deterritorialization, Arthur Tooth's brother, the Reverend Charles Tooth, also Anglo-Catholic, and from 1872 until 1875 Rector of St Mark's, Shelton, in the English industrial town of Stoke-on-Trent, moved in late 1876 to Siena, where the English community was keen to acquire a 43 Catholic Literature Association 1933. 44 Deleuze and Guattari 2004, 10.

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chaplain. The Bishop, a man who had taken great delight in the Bill that had made a martyr of Charles Tooth's brother, was reluctant to grant the priest the necessary licence to conduct services in Siena but capitulated in the face of pressure from the local community.45 Barely a year later, however, Charles Tooth moved to Florence where, in October 1877, he started an Anglo-Catholic house church, St Mark's, in the Via dei Serragli. This was one of two neighbouring streets in the Oltrarno district, south of the river Arno, that were synonymous with a by now well-established popular evangelism. Although Tooth's actions met with angry and sustained opposition from the Bishop, his services were popular and well attended. In the now unified and liberal Italy, he was able to advertise his church and its services in hotels frequented by English and American tourists, to great effect.46 By 1880 his weekly congregation had grown sufficiently for him to purchase a nearby Palazzo and have it converted to a church. The first Eucharist was celebrated there on 1 May 1881, but it was not until December 1884, and then only with very ill grace, that Bishop Sandford licensed Charles Tooth and St Mark's for service.47

I. Social reform and self-help in Florence At the time that Tooth established St Mark's, much of the Oltrarno was infamous for its slums.48 Liberal ideas informed political change in the new Italy, but the impact of liberal thinking on Italian society then, as now, was best seen in the solidarities that grew up to address the needs of its citizens. Many multiplicities converged to effect radical urban renewal in the 1870s and 1880s, including the business consortiums referred to above.49 In the Oltrarno the evangelicals were to make probably the greatest impact. In the 1840s several Italian cities had established elementary schools, 'for the instruction of male children of artisans and the labouring poor'.50 Ridolfi and Guicciardini were both members of an 1833 Florentine commission looking into the provision of asile infantili (nursery schools). This encouraged Lambruschini and local Protestants to produce a Teachers' Guide, which informed much of the work with children in Florence for years to come.51 The Jewish community reopened their kindergarten in 1835, reformed in line with the guidance being followed by other providers but retaining a significant degree of Jewish instruction.52 Both Jews and evangelicals were also concerned to train young people for a trade, at the same time providing moral and religious instruction 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Sandford 1874; 1878. Sandford 1878. Diocese of Gibraltar 1916. Rccini 1884. Salvadori 2001; Procacci 1991. Riall 1994, 46. 'C.R.M.' 1988. Salvador! 2001.

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that would engender a secure family life. Several model institutions were established to do this.53 Ridolfi himself had established the first vocational institution in Italy, for the applied study of agrarian science, and became the Minister for Education in the 1860 government. In 1860 the Waldensians established a theological school (1861-1922) in the Via dei Serragli. It also housed a kindergarten and elementary school for the children of the Oltrarno neighbourhood that ran until 1922, and a library, printing press and bookshop as well as a church. The nineteenth century closed in Florence with a substantial evangelical presence and a consolidation of the work of the Gospel with numerous educational, cultural and aid foundations and fourteen centres of worship. [These] evangelical communities were not inward looking but open societies, committed to living out the 'Great Commandment'. In doing so with practical measures in local areas ... they not only exercised a model of 'liberta' in religion but also in the expression of a just and democratic civil society.54 The role of the English Church in the emergence of modern Florence, 'never [losing] sight of those who had need of their support, whether in the repressive years after the first war of Independence or the early days of Italian unity', is fully recognized and valued within this framework.55 Today the Anglican Church in Florence continues to serve the wider community. Like its host city, St Mark's draws members from around the globe, including migrant workers, new and long-standing. It brings a distinctive voice to the encounter. Concerned with the structures of European Anglicanism and ecumenical conversations with Rome and with Methodism, it is also part of a local ecumenical dialogue that brings together churches of East and West, Catholic and Protestant. This group works in turn in the Inter-faith Forum. In collaboration with the political leaders of the city, the forum encourages high-profile interfaith and community relations meetings that grow naturally out of the Italian Constitution. Typically these are widely supported, well-attended, popular public Peace Rallies, held in the main piazzas of the city and widely covered by press and television. J. Conclusions This case study has demonstrated the interconnectivity of some multiple points of entry into the 200-year-old liberal plateau in Europe. It has concentrated on showing how 'machinic assemblages of desire' such as religious solidarities, even those outside the mainstream of governance, can overlap with others to become 'assemblages of enunciation', capable of affecting civil discourse and effecting change. With its focus on one

53 Salvador! 2001; 'C.R.M.' 1988. 54 'CR.M'1988, 211. 55 Artini 2002, 20.

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milieu, it has shown how different multiplicities link and in turn connect to others in an ever-changing and ever larger 'map'.56 The desires articulated by the assemblages in this case study come together in an enunciation easily identifiable as liberal. What they fought so hard to achieve, democratic principles, freedom of worship, even assembly itself, we accept today as givens. Yet a fundamental question for contemporary Europe is the extent to which that part of the map that we call liberalism remains a viable plane of consistency, and to what extent new assemblages are consolidating that will change its shape beyond recognition. 'The map is open and connectible in all its dimensions ... even where it gives rise to a despotic channel/57 An important voice arguing for informed and conscious association to promote positive connections such as those considered by this case study and to facilitate a successful transition to an intercultural Europe is that of Mohammed Khatami, former President of Iran. In 1998 at the UN General Assembly he successfully promoted the adoption of 2001 as the year of 'Dialogue Among Civilizations'. Since then he has spoken, in Iran and abroad, of the importance of East-West dialogue and of respect for 'the freedom to think and the security to express new thinking'.58 In 1999 he spoke in Florence, arguing for a new discourse of assemblages that would incorporate the best of rational Occidental civic discourse with the more spiritual 'equilibrium, serenity and contemplation' of Oriental, Islamic, philosophy.59 Will the present plateau expand in adaptive response to new multiplicities, as Khatami hopes? Or will new assemblages, gathering in 'hidden solidarities' on an as yet unforeseen tectonic plate, connect with a bang, causing seismic shifts in European thinking and a new longterm plane of consistency? The case study shows how either is possible and both are connected. As we consider the social worlds of the 'new Europe', Pahl usefully demonstrates that 'immigrants from different backgrounds and cultures enter a myriad of micro-social worlds, each with their own histories, values and priorities'.60 Although 'bridging ties to personal communities take time to build'61 and self-evidently such communities will be many and varied, new migrant workers find themselves building local allegiances comparatively quickly, finding their new identity within one town, for example, in preference to another nearby.62 It would seem that without strong and attractive local networks, based, as Pahl's research suggests, on altruism and reciprocity, to assist assimilation into the (liberal) plane of consistency, other groups will offer the desired friendship forms. Temporary networks, out of which new personal communities can emerge, therefore have a vital role to play 56 57 58 59 60 61 62

Deleuze and Guattari 2004, 23. Deleuze and Guattari 2004, 24, 22. Khatami 2000a; Soto and Steinhauser 2006. Khatami 2000b, 5. Pahl 2006, 2. Pahl 2006, 4. Pahl 2006, 2.

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in supporting incomers and in encouraging them to feel part of the society in which those networks are located. The society itself, however, through its formal structures, must recognize and welcome the new associations.63 'States are tested by their capacity to sustain this kind of participation/64 From these earliest 'micro-worlds', alliances will grow that in turn will lead to either social cohesion or social conflict. Where they tie into the liberal consensus across Europe, such assemblages will be broadly welcomed. Where those who feel comfortable within the liberal plane feel threatened by the assemblages, they in turn will form new alliances. 'The rhizome is alliance, uniquely alliance/65 'Connected and responsible' is how Walzer describes this mutual liberal civil society.66 The recent religious history of Florence confirms that collective assemblages of enunciation, rather than coercion, offer the best points of entry. But that same history also confirms that where personal communities based on a shared altruism are repressed and driven underground, outcroppings will emerge elsewhere and link to other mutually supportive points, eventually shifting the locus of the plane of consistency. The rhizome has no beginning or end but only a milieu from which the connecting links spread ever outward in a constantly changing shape. Like bamboo that, cut down in one place, reappears in another, religious freedom and political liberalism emerged together from the previous plane of what Procacci67 refers to as the respublica christianorum, that consensus of governance vested in church, kings and the divine rights of those family dynasties in whose hands all power was concentrated. So, too, the next plane of consistency in Europe will emerge from the present plane. The question is how and for how long the perception that the liberal milieu is the one that matters for Europe can be maintained.

63 64 65 66 67

Regione Toscana 2006. Walzer 1998, 306. Deleuze and Guattari 2004, 27. Walzer 1998, 308. Walzer 1998, 9,13.

At the European Roots of the Interreligious Dialogue between Christian Orthodoxy and Judaism: History, the Study of Images, and Modernity Philippe Gardette Just when Europe is becoming the site of a religious dialogue between Judaism and Christianity, the relations between Judaism and Orthodox Christianity are completely stagnant, even though other Christian confessions are increasingly involved in theological meetings and contacts of various kinds with the religion of Moses. This state of affairs is particularly regrettable in so far as Greek identity and Orthodoxy are closely interrelated, and we could say the same thing about Judaism and the State of Israel. So this lack of any systematic and searching interreligious dialogue is creating a dangerous political vacuum. The most surprising fact remains the way the main characteristic of the Orthodox religion is that it is deeply rooted in the Old Testament, particularly as compared with the Catholic culture of the West, which is more based on the New Testament. As regards interreligious dialogue, a first attempt at an exchange of views was marked by the conference 'On Greek Orthodox-Jewish Relations', whose proceedings were published by The Greek Orthodox Theological Review back in 1977. It goes without saying that it is now, yet again, essential to underline a few useful points for a dialogue which is both desired and necessary. We thus share the view of Zvi Ankori who, in his paper delivered at the same conference, suggested that we start from history, before reflecting on more contemporary matters by way of conclusion.1

A. Judaism in Orthodox Christian theology As Gilbert Dagron has aptly put it, 'the Old Testament was of much greater importance than Antiquity'2 in the Orthodox tradition, where Sie emperor was seen as the heir of the kings of the Old 1 Cf. Ankori 1977,17-18. 2 Cf. Dagron 1996, 295, quoting Eusebius of Caesarea. Dagron insists on the essential idea that Byzantine culture is the heir of the Hellenistic-Judaic culture of Alexandria and of the way in which it was integrated into Roman history.

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Testament,3 assuming as he did a 'quasi-priestly function'.4 Nonetheless, the Church had an impact on the way this tradition was continued, and 'the Old Testament lost all historical reality to become nothing but the projection of a future to be interpreted', since it had lost its legitimacy from the moment Jesus arrived to fulfil the Law. However, the Old and the New Testaments could be understood only if the one were interpreted in the light of the other, which meant that Judaism played a key role in Orthodox culture.5 Thus the real Israel became the Christian Empire.6 In tandem with this, the tradition that made of Jesus a king of the Jews and a Jewish priest - a tradition that is still present in Orthodoxy - led to an overlap of powers and a desire to Judaize Christianity. Hence the central place of the Old Testament in Orthodox theology.7 That is why the role played by the emperor in the economy of salvation was integrated into a messianic genealogy that started with David, passed through Jesus and ended with the latest sovereign.8

B. Status of the Jews in Christian Byzantium The juridical basis of the Byzantine Empire lay in its Roman inheritance.9 And when it came to the Jews, the edict of Caracalla of 212 granted them the status of Roman citizens.10 They were thus free subjects of state jurisdiction - principles that were maintained throughout the existence of the Empire. However, there were certain laws that hampered their individual freedom, such as the prohibition on polygamy, and their exclusion from the army, the administration and public office from the start of the fifth century onwards. In 531, the Jews were disqualified from offering evidence against Orthodox Christians: this was part of a package of measures that also affected other minorities in the Empire. Finally, legislation was passed to restrict socializing between Christians and Jews: the overly close relations between the two religions was making it easier for Jewish beliefs and practices to spread into Christian milieux, which undermined Christian faith and social order. These two themes obsessed the Church for a long time.11 Once the Empire had become Christian, the Church, subject as it was to the political authorities, was not in any position to question the civil law, but tried to bend it in such a way as to make it, in practice, more 3 As far as King David is concerned, cf. Dagron 1996,133-4; for Saint Basil's interpretation, Dagron 19%, 206; for the parallel between the Byzantine emperor and his Old Testament figure (Melchizedek), Dagron 1996, 184-90; for the theme of the anointing and the emperor, Dagron 1996, 276; and on the spiritual continuity leading from King David to the first Byzantine emperors, Dagron 1996, 274-5. 4 The emperor, in fact, is the link between God and humanity: Dagron 1996, 280. 5 Cf. Dagron 1996, 289. 6 Cf. Dagron 1996, 69. 7 Cf. Dagron 19%, 327. 8 Cf. Dagron 1996, 323. 9 On this subject, cf. the general studies by Linder 1987; Starr 1939; Sharf 1971. 10 Cf. Rabello 1972; Starr 1939,1-26, and 144^7, doc. 83; Baron 1955, 185-90. 11 On these questions, cf. Jacoby 1993,118-21.

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restrictive. As a result, Jews came to be considered as second-class citizens. But the Byzantine state recognized the existence of the Jewish ethno-religious collectivity and ensured its continuity, as well as that of Judaism. The Jewish religion was thus considered permissible and its practice was tolerated, even though the circumcising of non-Jews and proselytizing were forbidden. The shift from a Roman empire in which religious pluralism was the rule to a system based on a single religion occurred in two phases:12 through the proclamation of Christianity as a permitted religion by Constantine I (324-37), the first Christian emperor, and then by the proclamation of Christianity as the State religion, in 380. But the difficulty encountered by the spiritual and temporal authorities of the period lay in maintaining religious cohesion in an empire with such far-flung frontiers. As a result there were repeated condemnations for heresy, in an attempt either to preserve the purity of Christian doctrine, or to combat those individuals who were drawn to Judaism trends which neither the Church nor the imperial powers could entirely stem. From a temporal point of view, the Empire recognized Jewish communities, which continued to enjoy their autonomy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. State policy was, however, ambivalent: on the one hand it tended to preserve the Jewish community, while on the other it sometimes supported the Church's efforts to weaken Judaism. Thus, when Justinian I promulgated Novelle 146, in 553, he emphasized the emperor's authority in the religious sphere by intervening in Jewish liturgy: he imposed the use of a Greek translation of the Bible that was in accordance with Christian exegesis.13 Meanwhile, the prohibition on founding new synagogues promulgated in 415, 423 and 438 was not applied with rigour, and while imperial policy encouraged baptism, it forbade proselytizing and punished conversion to Judaism severely. Finally, the possession of pagan slaves and catechumens, who might also have been tempted by Judaism, was prohibited. Nonetheless, it is worth remarking that a series of laws on these subjects, promulgated between 527 and 535, concerned not just the Jews but also pagans, heretics and Samaritans. Thus, it was the wish of the imperial authorities to restrict but not crush the nonOrthodox.14 So the Jews were not the only ones to be subjected to these discriminatory laws. And the fact that these laws had to be promulgated several times over demonstrates that legislation concerning the Jews either was not always respected, or else did not have the desired effect. In addition, the Jews were much better off than the Samaritans, pagans and heretics: their cases were indeed not comparable. This fact explains the criticisms levelled against the Empire by Elisha bar Shinaya, the spiritual leader of the Nestorians of Persia from 1008 to 1046; he condemned its relative tolerance towards the Jews, of whom, in his view, 12 On this subject, see Herrin 1987. 13 Cf. Linder 1987, 402-11; Mann 1927, 241^82 and 301-2. 14 Cf. Jacoby 1993,122-3.

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there were too many; Jews were given excessive liberty, allowed to proclaim their identity openly, to practise Judaism, build synagogues and even enter churches.15 It should also be pointed out that imperial legislation of a more general character was not always uniformly applied across the whole Empire.

C. Agreements and disagreements between the spiritual powers and the temporal authorities As regards relations between church and state, it is worth bearing in mind that the former power was subject to the latter: the emperor summoned and presided over the council. While one might expect there to have been a united policy towards the Jews and Judaism on the part of the spiritual and temporal powers, several cases fly in the face of this stereotype: there were profound divergences between the Church and the emperors. In fact, the excess of the Church's zeal was tempered by the emperor, who needed to safeguard public peace; and at least until Theodosius II, the emperors reacted against anti-Jewish demonstrations, even if this meant taking measures against Christians.16 The emperors' pragmatic policy was also dictated by the fear of a social revolt on the part of the Jews, whose communities were well organized and who could represent a danger for the Empire by offering logistical support for the Persians. As a consequence, the emperors' policy towards Judaism was sometimes more moderate than that of the Church.17 Nonetheless, though certain emperors decided to resort to the enforced conversion of the Jews, this policy was exceptional and short-lived,18 and cannot be compared with the different anti-Jewish measures inflicted by the West. The first attempt at a systematic forcible baptism dates from 630-2. The Emperor Heraclius, shaken by the temporary Persian occupation of Jerusalem, imposed conversion on the Jews. This policy can be explained by two interdependent reasons. By taking advantage of the Persian invasion, the Jews tried to recreate a religious centre in Jerusalem, so as then to acquire political independence. Heraclius, by eradicating Judaism, would ensure that his empire remained stable in a traditionally turbulent region. Furthermore, it was the Christian view that the end of Judaism announced the parousia, and this may also explain the Emperor's attitude.19 Under Leo HI, in 721-2, the imperial initiative formed part of a general policy aimed at reinforcing the religious unity of Byzantium: the Jews, as well as the members of the

15 16 17 18

Cf. Sharf 1971,109-10. Cf. Jacoby 1993, 122-3. On this question, see Bachrach 1985, 399-421; Rabello 1977, 555. This was the case after the conversion that occurred under Basil I: Cf. Oikonomides 1990, 147. 19 Cf. Dagron and Déroche 1991, 18-34, 37-43, 263-7; Laga 1990, 183-8.

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Judaizing and dualist sects that were deeply rooted in Anatolia, were forced to choose between baptism and exile.20 But of all the imperial persecutions, the one which shocked Romaniote communities most profoundly was that of Basil I. In 873-4, the Emperor attempted to convert the Jews, in particular those living in the capital and the big cities, perhaps in response to the economic upturn which the Empire was then experiencing and also in reaction to the adoption of Judaism by the Khazar nobility. However, it was the way in which he imposed his policy that left such an imprint on people's minds. There were two phases. First, the Emperor organized a great public confrontation during which the Jews were invited, texts in hand, to prove the veracity of their faith and the legitimacy of their form of worship: they must either convince their listeners, or convert to Christianity. Second, baptized Jews were to be freed from discriminatory taxes, rewarded and promoted to high office.21 This attempt to bribe them into conversion was deeply shocking to the Romaniotes. However, this policy was short-lived and Constantine Porphyrogenitus admitted that the Jews were soon 'returning to their own vomit'.22 Subsequently, the son of Basil I, Leo VI, went further: after coming to power in 886, he promulgated a law forbidding baptized Jews under ids father's reign to practise the Judaism in which most of them secretly persisted.23 Finally, the religious persecution under Romanos I Lekapenos, initiated around 930, was aimed not only at the Jews but also at the Armenians and Muslim prisoners. Jews opposed to baptism could, however, take refuge in the Kingdom of the Khazars.24 Several conclusions can be drawn. First and foremost, the persecutions against the Jews, even if sometimes based on religious reasons, were essentially responses to immediate political needs. Furthermore, they did not always concern Judaism alone, but were attempts to ensure, to some extent, imperial unity: for Leo III or Romanos I, the disappearance of heterogeneous religious elements would entail the extinction of cultures not in accordance with Orthodox Byzantine civilization. We should finally note that these policies of conversion were infrequent, short-lived and unsuccessful: the vast majority of the Jews returned openly to Judaism after the persecutions without incurring the punishments laid down by the law.25 Faced with this policy of forcible baptism, the Church played a moderating role. After all, baptism is an individual and spontaneous rite of initiation, and that is why the imperial policy of conversion applied to the Jews raised strong resistance in the very heart of the Church. Thus the forcible baptism of the Jews of Africa in 632 drew from Saint 20 21 22 23

Cf. Jacoby 1993,124. Cf. Theophanes 1838, 341-2. Cf. Dagron 1984, 307. On the relation between Judaism and vomit, Cf. infra. On the reign of the two emperors, cf. Dagron and Déroche 1991, 43-5 and Dagron 1991, 34&-9. 24 Cf. Starr 1939, 7. 25 Cf. Oikonomides 1990,147.

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Máximos a letter condemning this policy.26 We find a similar attitude behind the drawing up of canon 8 of the Second Council of Nicaea in 787, and in the treatise of Gregory Asbestas entitled the Treatise on the Baptism of the Jews, dating from 878 or 879. In this text, Asbestas strongly criticizes the mass baptisms ordered by Basil I, which he deems to be anticanonical: Jews whose conversion is not sincere (since it is simply a means for them to improve their social and material conditions) cannot be trusted.27 Furthermore, from the ninth century onwards, certain ecclesiastical milieux were opposed to the temporal power intervening in a domain they considered as belonging exclusively to the spiritual power.28

D. Can Jews be saved? From its very origins, the Church's theological thinking was developed in relation to Judaism.29 The Church was a Jewish sect among many others, but it differentiated itself by opening itself to non-Jews. Then it elaborated its own 'economy' by insisting on two basic ideas in which Judaism played a basic role: the Jews were living witnesses to the Old Testament and, by virtue of the fact that the Messiah Jesus had come to fulfil the Law and not to abolish it, Judaism found legitimacy within the Christian Empire. The books of the Bible that were used by the Jews were considered by Christians to be revealed, and the Old Testament, which contains the announcement of the Messiah Jesus, occupied an essential place in Orthodox Christian theology and liturgy. In addition, the disappearance of Judaism would have been considered a dramatic loss for Christianity: the tribulations of the religion of Moses were considered to be a thermometer indicating the good spiritual health of Christians;30 if it were to die out, Orthodoxy would lose its most important point of reference.31 This latter belief indeed leads to a paradox, since it is in tension with the belief that the extinction of Judaism would entail the beginning of the parousia. At first sight, this last idea could have led to certain excesses, such as forcible conversion, and to harsh restrictions being imposed on the Jews. However, any attempt at resorting to force would have been considered as putting human will in the place of divine will, which was unacceptable, and this explains why the Jews needed to be led to baptism by conversion.

26 27 28 29

Cf. Degresse 1937,131-5. Cf. Dagron 1991, 319, 340-7, 352; Cumont 1903, 11-15. Cf. Dagron 1991, 353-7. On this subject, cf. A. Ducellier, 'Juifs et chrétiens d'après les textes hagiographiques grecs', in Bordes-Benayoun 2000,15-33. 30 The formula for abjuring Judaism, dating from the start of the eleventh century and preserved in a copy of 1027, dearly expresses this idea. Cf. Benesevic 1926,308-16; Starr 1939,173-80; Patlagean 1965,138-9 and 143-7; Dagron 1991, 354-6. 31 On this subject, see Jacoby 1993,109.

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E. Some traces of the day-to-day relations between Christians and Jews before the thirteenth century The lives of saints played a special role in Byzantine civilization. These hagiographies related the stories of particularly strong-willed, impetuous, marginal saints struggling against Orthodoxy and an imperial power that were judged to be spiritually tepid. But the excessive zeal of these gyrovague monks shows that they considered relations between Christians and Jews to be too close. In these texts, the diverse ethnic groups and religions of the Empire are much more unpopular, both among the people and with the elites. For example, when Nilus the Younger was driven away and stoned by his contemporaries, he was called a 'Frank', a 'Bulgarian monk', or an 'Armenian' but, remarkably enough, never a 'Jew'.32 Even more, the lives of the saints prove how hostile the Byzantine people were to those who adopted extreme positions and attempted to undermine the normalized relations between Christian and Jewish communities. This is shown by an episode in the life of Nikon the Metanoeite, a person who was fond of preaching penitence, as his name indicates. This saint, after many exploits, decided to withdraw into the caves of Mt Taygetus, where he lived as a hermit. One day, an epidemic broke out in Sparta. The Spartans were troubled and did not know what to do and begged the gyrovague monk to come and rid them of the plague. The saintly man promised to free them from the danger, so long as they would drive from their town the Jewish populace living with them, so that they would no longer have any opportunity to practise their foul customs nor to sully the town with the miasmas of their faith.33 Two stereotypes are apparent here: that of contagion, of being sullied by the Jews, and the idea that the Christians were being punished by this epidemic for their excessive closeness to the Jews. So the remedy was simple, consisting as it did in ridding the town of the Jews. But some of the Spartans hesitated to accept this idea. The delegation reacted to the saint's request that the Jews be excluded in the following way: This speech reduced them to silence and they reflected on the idea for a long time; then they swore that they would carry out all that they had been enjoined to do.34 Things were not left there, and Nikon encountered considerable resistance from a certain John Aratos, who contradicted him vehemently, saying, 'The expulsion of the Jews is neither just nor reasonable/ John's profession was, according to the chronicle, that of a 'préparer of fabrics' and the Jews were acknowledged to be the experts at this kind of work: 32 Cf. Jacoby 1993, pi. 80. 33 Cf. Vie de Nikon le Métanotte 1906,163; and A. Ducellier, L'Église Byzantine, Paris: Desclée, 1995, 233. 34 Cf. Vie de Nikon le Metanoile 1906,163.

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as a pragmatic, commonsensical artisan, he had no desire to be deprived of a valuable labour force. He even went further and showed how absurd was the spiritual remedy being proposed by the monk, ordering, 'Make one of those Jews enter the town.35 It thus appears that, at least until the eleventh century, political, economic and religious reasons could keep Jews and Christians together, living in the same districts as one another. Another narrative, composed by Skylitzes-Kedrenos in the eleventh century, tells us that the Jews attended Christian schools. If the action is situated in Constantinople under Justin II (565-78), it is highly likely that it is referring to contemporary realities. The story depicts a Jewish glassblower who 'sent (his only son) to study letters near the Great Church (Hagia Sophia)'.36 One day as he leaves school, the child goes along with his Christian schoolmates and takes communion in the church, as he innocently confesses when he returns home.37 His father is furious and flings him into his furnace, where, however, his mother finds him unharmed: he relates that he has had a vision of a lady in white who extinguished the flames and told him to be brave. So the mother and her son go to see the Patriarch, asking him for baptism; then the child and his parents are brought before the Emperor, who would like to obtain the conversion of all three of them. But the father refuses and is crucified, not for his obstinacy, but because he had tried to 'murder his own child'.38 This story is illuminating on three precise levels: first of all, Jews are claimed to have attended the Christians' school, which does not seem to shock the author. However, the child breaks a prohibition, that on taking communion, and his father's dismayed response tells us that the consequences of the transgression committed by his son can be extremely serious: he certainly has to fear the wrath of the state and of his own community, which explains why he attempts so cruelly to efface the traces of the crime. Finally, the sentence passed on him proves simultaneously his attachment to Judaism - the father is acting logically, since he wants to remain a Jew - and the fact that refusing to abjure does not in itself lead to death. The moral of this story is clear: Jews bring their children up in error, they are cruel, and the young child and his mother convert by choice. However, scenes from everyday life are depicted in this tale: the Jews of Constantinople are happy to be artisans, glassmakers or goldsmiths, their children frequent Christian schools daily, and this common education has the advantage of presenting them with the true faith and leading them to conversion. Now this tradition of common education is found in the twelfth century; Anna Comnena reports that, at the orphanage of the church of Saint Paul in Constantinople, you could see pupils from 'all races'.39 Other edifying narratives bear witness to this closeness between Jews and Christians. For example, the historian Leo the Deacon, in the tenth 35 36 37 38 39

Cf. Vie de Nikon le Metanoile 1906,163. Cf. Skylitzes-Kedrenos, History, Bonn, vol. I, p. 687. Cf. Skylitzes-Kedrenos, History, Bonn, vol. I, pp. 687-«. Cf. ibid. Cf. Anna Comnena, Alexiad, vol. HI, XV, 9; and Buckler 1969,177.

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century, relates the story of a Christian of Beirut who, on moving house, accidentally leaves an image of Christ in his old house. A Jew moves into his house and invites some friends round for a housewarming. On spotting the icon, they jump to the wrong conclusion about his belief and start insulting him, accusing him of being a crypto-Christian. The Jew denies this, but, in order to convince his friends, finds himself obliged to pierce the image, from which, miraculously, blood immediately starts to flow. The Christians learn of the drama and recover the holy image to put it in a safe place in a church.40 This story occurs during the recapture of Northern Syria by Nikephoros Phokas - this was a country in which Christians were in a minority. However, we can learn from it on two specific levels: certain Jews were not offended by the presence of icons in their houses and, in particular, the Jews did not live in a separate district, as seems to have been the case throughout the Empire until 1040-50. F. Images of the Jews in the writings of the Byzantine high Church Generally speaking, the sources from the high Church are relatively disappointing. While the fourteenth century saw the victory of hesychastic mysticism, as well as its integration into Orthodox spirituality, this did not lead to any real dialogue with Judaism. However, mysticism is the privileged place of exchange between different religious confessions. Now, hesychasm is an Orthodox way of thought as far as the Orthodox are concerned, a family matter to which the other religions of the Book are not invited. Admittedly, the texts of the hesychast saints and their followers attest to relations with Muslims - relations which, indeed, were much less polemical than those with the Latins: we have in mind, more especially, Gregory Palamas and his captivity among the Ottomans and the relations between Cantacuzene and the Emir of Aydin. However, as far as Judaism is concerned, their writings content themselves with repeating the theological arguments established by the ecclesiastical tradition, and contribute nothing new to the image of the Jews. So it seems that a space for dialogue and exchange between Christians and Jews was not possible in the spiritual world of Byzantium in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In order to understand this lack of openness, which led to an incredible paucity of references to Judaism in our sources, we need to consider the context. From the fourteenth century onwards, the Byzantines were increasingly certain that their empire was facing extinction, and there were two threats hovering over Orthodoxy: the Roman Catholic Church, which was threatening to annihilate the Orthodox religion by uniting the two churches; and Islam. Now the Turkish regime was offering much more religious flexibility: so it is easy to understand that debates on the definition of Orthodoxy kept the scholars arguing until long after the capture of Constantinople by Mehmed H, and that the question of the 40 Cf. Leo the Deacon, in Patrología Graeca 117, cols 896-7.

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relations of Christians and Jews should have moved into the background. This is why theological writings on Judaism can be limited to the repetition of traditional arguments. However, the first patriarch under Turkish domination, Scholarios, in his Refutation of the Jewish Error, repeats the idea that the Jews of the Bible have nothing to do with the Jews of Byzantium, which leads him to deny any legitimacy to contemporary Judaism. To understand such remarks, we need to remember that this text was written in 1464 and that, in the Ottoman system, Jews and Christians were treated for the first time on an equal footing: so it seems that this text marks a radical break between Orthodox Christianity and Judaism. Indeed, Scholarios defines the Orthodox Church as the real Israel in captivity, a veritable theological topos, but one which is used afresh in the writings of this prelate. This position leads to a significant change in the image of the Jews and of Judaism in Byzantine writings: contemporary Judaism is reduced to the status of an imposture. G. Jews in the city: a problem for some At the beginning of the thirteenth century, the writings of Patriarch Athanasios I give us a description of the place of Jews and other religious minorities in Constantinople. In one of his letters,41 he condemns the, to his mind, excessive economic role played by Jews, Armenians and Muslims42 in the imperial capital. He insists in particular on the spiritual danger that such a process represents for Orthodoxy. As far as the Romaniotes are concerned, he criticizes the Emperor for being influenced by the 'deicidal synagogue' through the intermediary of a certain Kokalas,43 an Orthodox and an alleged friend of the Jews. Other texts condemn imperial policy for being too permissive in its attitude towards those who are cut off from the Orthodox faith. Thus, a letter44 that can be dated to between the end of 1303 and 1305 severely criticizes the reception, by the Emperor, of the primate of Egypt, Athanasios II. In the course of his diatribe, the Patriarch of Constantinople Athanasios also attacks other religions that are protected by certain imperial councillors, such as the Arsenites, or the Jews designated by the expression 'those who blaspheme against God'. During the same period, another letter, probably composed between summer 1304 and 1305, was sent to the bishops.45 It was received by them just as they were making ready to return to their different dioceses. The Patriarch requested a collective appeal to the Emperor on subjects deemed to be essential. The first concerned the increasing influence of the Latin faith in Byzantine lands. Then the Patriarch mentioned a mysterious 'affair of the Jews and the 41 Cf. Talbot 1942, doc. 41; and Bänescu 1942, 35-6. 42 It would be useful to have a study of the symmetry between these three religious expressions in the Patriarch's works. 43 Cf. Talbot 1942, 349. 44 Cf. Talbot 1942, doc. 7. 45 Cf. Patrologia Graeca 117, cols 513-14; and Talbot 1942, doc. 23.

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Armenians'. He said no more of this, but it appears that the affair was of sufficient importance for the bishops and Athanasios to take council and refer the matter to the Emperor. It was following this intervention that the celebrated letter to the Emperor, on the measures to be taken against Jews, Armenians and Turks in the capital, was composed.46 Athanasios points out that the Byzantines have tolerated the erection, in the very middle of an Orthodox city, of a 'deicide synagogue', an expression that needs to be related to the traditional charge of deicide laid against the Jews.47 The building of this synagogue was experienced as a real slap in the face for Orthodoxy.48 The Patriarch even emphasizes the support being given to the Jews by Kokalas, a member of the Imperial Court in charge of maintaining good relations between Jews and Christians. This correspondence confirms what we also learn from a letter of Máximos Planudes condemning the presence of Romaniote tanners in the Vlanga district. In his argument, Máximos compares the strong and unpleasant stench produced by the tanneries to the horrible spiritual smell49 coming from the Jews and their synagogue placed next to the Church of St John Pródromos.50 It indicates that this synagogue was still being built, proof that Jews had settled in this district only recently, or else that the community had grown.51 It is likely that this synagogue was located in the Vlanga district.52 The second important element contained in this letter is the mention of a protector of the Jews, George Kokalas. Do we find anything to prove that a councillor of Andronikos n was in charge of Jewish affairs in the city? It is difficult to say, but it is worth pointing out that a certain Kokalas, probably our man, was present at the trial of a certain Chionios53 accused of Judaizing in 1336. Subsequently, this person was sufficiently close to the Emperor to marry his daughter to the nephew of Andronikos II, the protovestiary Andronikos Palaeologus. Later on, we encounter him again as megas logariastes in 1326: so it does not appear that the Patriarch's attacks, and his over-fondness for Romaniotes, kept Kokalas from affairs of state. 46 Cf. above 47 Cf. above. 48 Cf. also the letters in Patrología Graeca 117, cols 512C-514A; and Talbot 1942, doc. 36, which states: 'They [the multitude] have been contaminated by the introduction [into the city] of Jews and Armenians', col. 512, and, in col. 513, 'The Jews and Armenians should leave [the capital].' Finally, one of his homilies states that 'it is the duty of Christians to hate the deicidal Jews and their doctors until they resort to baptism'. Behind these words we can hear a distinctly apocalyptic message. 49 Perhaps the author is here referring to a tenth-century work by Nikon Metanoites that refers to the Jews as pollution. Cf. Starr 1939,167-& 50 J. Starr, Romania: The Jewries of the Levant after the Fourth Crusade, Paris: Éditions du Centre, 1949, addendum, p. 35; D. Jacoby, 'Les quartiers juifs de Constantinople à l'époque byzantine', Byzantion 37 (1967), 191. 51 On this question, cf. above. 52 Cf. above. While the majority of Venetian Jews settled in this district in 1319, this exodus probably started much earlier, which explains the creation of the new synagogue: the Byzantine Romaniotes certainly wanted to distinguish themselves from their coreligionists under Venetian protection by requesting the creation of a new place of worship especially for them. 53 Miklosich and Muller 1860-90, 174-8.

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At the same time, Athanasios I used the image of the Jews in the Scriptures to denounce the foul practices of Sie believers: in one homiletic passage, he draws a parallel between the episode of the Jews as 'fornicators'54 (a real topos55) who incurred divine judgement when they left Egypt, and the unedifying behaviour of the Christian people who can expect divine wrath.56 A letter to the bishops poses a new problem.57 Indeed, the Patriarch emphasizes that 'the Jews cannot stand him going into the Church of God to preach the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ'. The missive refers to events that happened at Easter. We might well be surprised at this direct aggression on the part of Jews towards the Patriarch, and yet such an attitude is sufficiently rare to be highlighted. Finally, in several texts, Athanasios I vehemently condemns Christians of every social class who frequent Jewish circles, in particular doctors. After this patriarch, only the trial of Chionios was to attack Judaism as a source of the perversion of the Church and its faithful in day-to-day existence.58 As we have stated, sallies against Judaism are relatively rare if we take into account the fact that our study covers two and a half centuries: it is the writings of the turbulent Patriarch Athanasios I that comprise the essential documents in the file. Thus, while the image of Judaism did not undergo any revolution in this period, the seeds were being sown that would lead to the divorce between Christians and Jews in the Ottoman period: the references in the writings of Scholarios reveal as much. The scholar may be frustrated by the modest results of this research, especially since the texts one has to deal with contain hackneyed arguments and are entirely devoid of originality.

H. Were the Byzantines antisemitic? The Byzantines are frequently accused of Judaeophobia and even antisemitism.59 However, this idea is over-hasty and needs qualification. In fact, as the Empire was far-flung, the period under study very long, and the sources increasingly few and far between, it is very difficult to find unambiguous evidence for the idea that there was widespread Judaeophobia among all the subjects of the Empire, uniformly across the whole Empire, at all levels of society and in every period. The most convincing cases of hatred towards the Jews come from a few texts that can be separated into two groups. First, works dating from between the origins of Christianity and the fourth century. These bear witness to 54 We find this same view of Judaism in Aphraates, who accuses the Jews of leading lives dominated by sensuality and carnal desire. Closer to the time of the Empire, this idea is present in important Church Fathers such as John Chrysostom. Cf. E. Revel-Neher, The Image of the Jew in Byzantine Art, Oxford Pergamon, 1992,22-4. This accusation was most likely a theological commonplace in the fourteenth century and the Patriarch probably drew on the arguments of John Chrysostom. 55 Cf. above. 56 Cf. Talbot 1942, doc. 105. 57 Cf. ibid. 58 Cf. Miklosich and Muller 1860-90,174-8; for a complete bibliography, cf. Jacoby 1993. 59 Cf. Jacoby 1993,104 and 138. But the term is anachronistic.

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considerable tensions between Christians and Jews, and lie behind the different stereotypes that became attached to Judaism. The other type of text is more popular in origin and the evidence more contradictory. The local and everyday dimension of coexistence, socializing and economic cooperation between Jews and Christians is undeniable: that is why church and state tried to restrict relations between the members of the two religions when they became too close. In the same way, gyrovague saints tried in vain to whip up Christians against Jews. There were other kinds of rapprochement between the communities. The prolonged contact with Jewish doctors, at all levels of society60 right up to the emperor, produced the same effect: the Jewish doctor of Manuel I Comnenos intervened with his master to plead on behalf of his community.61 In this case, we can surmise that, as far as Christians were concerned, Jews were neighbours - the people next door whom you could invite into your home and with whom you could do business after sharing a bench with them at school. You could sometimes share their feasts, their ablutions and even their prayers: it was not shocking for Jews even to enter a church. From this intimate mutual acquaintance, which favoured the absence of special districts set apart for the Jews, there arose another trend in conformity with the Christian tradition, insisting on the voluntary conversion of the Jews, a real divine miracle. Nonetheless, the sense of otherness was not always accepted, since it presupposed that the Jew was a potential Christian. On the other hand, the riots and persecutions launched against the Jews, the forcible baptisms, and expulsions on the local scale were epiphenomena, and these local initiatives did not always have the whole populace behind them. However, as we have emphasized, the Jews were second-class citizens. Other evidence brings out the tension that existed between Christians and Jews, and suggests that an underlying tension was at the origin of the so-called 'bloodless pogroms'.62 In the first half of the eleventh century, the Nestorian Elisha of Nisibis related that the Jews 'endured humiliation and hatred on the part of the Christian population of Byzantium'.63 Another source, an anonymous pamphlet with the title Anacharsis or Ananias, written around 1158, gives satirical expression to the contempt and dislike felt by laypersons for the Jews.64 At the same period, the poet John Tzetzes65 relates that, whenever he addresses the Jews, he greets them with a stream of invective, alludes to their magical practices, and showers them with curses. Finally, Benjamin of Tudela states that it is because of the Jewish tanners - who chuck the dirty, 60 For Justinian H, cf. van de Ven 1962-70,I, 179, and ÏÏ, 204-6: the doctor was called a servant of devils and an adept of sorcery. 61 Cf. Benjamin of Tudela 1993. 62 In these, Jews were sometimes humiliated by Christians without there being any actual deaths. 63 As this author was a Nestorian, this accusation needs to be treated with caution. However, it certainly contains a germ of truth. 64 Cf. Chrestides 1984, 259-60, 264-5, 271, 283. 65 Cf. Hunger 1973, 304-5.

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stinking water from the treatment of hides into the streets - that the Greeks hate and oppress the Jews, and beat them up in public.66 In spite of this evidence, the fact remains that it is difficult to conclude definitely that Judaeophobia was generally prevalent among the Byzantines. Indeed, it is certain that the Jews, by virtue of their status as Roman citizens, were less badly treated than other heresies67 or religions, such as the Armenians, and our conclusion must remain independent both of the literary topoi that are found in Hebrew and Byzantine literature, and of events that are contemporary with us. The interpretation of sources is thus quite difficult, and it is best to admit that, as a general rule, the life of the Romaniotes unfolded without any major untoward incidents but that, sometimes, upsurges of violence caused by underlying tensions (tensions that became overt at critical junctures, and were fuelled by religious beliefs) could affect these relations in a negative way. We can however state that there was a significant turning-point in relations between Jews and Christians: the eleventh century saw Orthodoxy gradually turning in on itself. Its spirituality seems to have become more rarefied and less intense. The consequence of this position was that the Jews were now kept at more of a distance, to such an extent that there were now districts to which they were more or less restricted. This desire to keep the Jews out of the city, a desire which became more categorical in the twelfth century and until the end of the Empire, can perhaps be taken as the sign that Orthodoxy was turning away from the efforts necessary for the conversion of the Jews and instead facing up to the needs of its defence as it confronted the threat of the Latin and Muslim worlds. In fact, it was the very identity of Christianity that was in danger. Judaism was the heart of Christian Orthodoxy and the books of the Old Testament served as an allegory for the Church and the age in which it lived: if we bear in mind the temporal decline and fall of the Empire, in which the Church alone was the receptacle of Byzantine culture under the domination of the Ottomans, Orthodox Christianity naturally became the real Israel in exile, which led to historical Judaism, itself in exile, being considered as an imposture. So there was no longer a Jewish people, but just a change - albeit a highly important one - in the image of Judaism in Orthodox Christian culture. This dominant idea became ever more urgent from the fourteenth century onwards, even though its roots lay in the thirteenth century, and it must be considered as the underlying element in any perception of Judaism. We will conclude this chapter with a brief afterthought. In the Ottoman period, the Jews continued to be protected by Orthodoxy,68 something that was based on a long religious tradition that came to a peak when Archbishop Damaskinos bravely took a stand against the Nazis in 1940.69 66 This report seems a little exaggerated: the traveller liked to paint a pessimistic picture of the lives of the co-religionists that he met on his travels. 67 On this question, see Gouillard 1976,177-216. 68 Cf. Ankori 1977, 52, 54-7. 69 Cf. Tsatos 1969, 56.

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In conclusion, we follow Zvi Ankori when he claims that 'Greek Orthodoxy and Judaism are closer than are Orthodoxy and Catholicism'/0 something which places Orthodoxy as a privileged tradition within contemporary interreligious encounters. It is an important remark. Indeed, Europe has had the good fortune to integrate several countries which have a majority, or a significant minority, of Orthodox inhabitants. Now the present chapter supposes that Orthodoxy, closely linked as it is to politics, may become the essential link in the dialogue between a European or North American West and a particularly unstable Near East: let us now hope that a peaceful and enlightened dialogue may come about in a systematic way just as extremists of every kind are becoming increasingly vocal and are opening the doors to intolerance in spite of all the nightmares of the last century.

70 Ankori 1977, 27.

Historical Memory: Blessing or Burden? Russian Orthodox Christians in the Modern World Irina Levinskaya The collapse of the Soviet state presented a serious challenge to the Russian Orthodox Church, especially to its establishment. On the one hand, for the first time in more than seventy years it did not need to keep a low profile; the pressure from the state had gone, and the Church became free to make independent decisions on ecclesiastical issues. On the other hand, the psychological pressure of a sudden and unexpected freedom was great and nearly unbearable. This phenomenon is well known to psychologists who work with prisoners who are serving a long sentence: some of them become so used to their life behind bars that the perspective of freedom terrifies them and sometimes they even commit a crime in prison to secure a new sentence. Now, nearly twenty years since all restrictions on religious life were lifted, it should be admitted that the Russian Orthodox Church has missed the unique opportunity to become an important and influential spiritual force on the way from a totalitarian to a democratic state. The life in incarceration which was forced on the Russian Orthodox Church left deep psychological scars. The communist regime aimed at, and succeeded in, alienating the Church from the social problems of the contemporary world. Preaching at liturgy was reduced to explanation of the biblical lessons read. No social or political issues could be addressed. Under such pressure, the main concern of the Church became the restoration and preservation of interrupted tradition, which was understood not only in terms of liturgical life, but as a much broader concept: the Church viewed itself as a custodian of national historical memory. During the period when only an ideologically motivated and distorted picture of the past was officially permitted and the history of the previous periods was rewritten, this was an important and valid task. The idealization of the past and nostalgic reflections over it, inevitable in such circumstances, cut both ways, however: a system which is oriented not toward development, but toward self-reproduction, can easily end in stagnation. This danger was realized by some of the Orthodox theologians, Fr Alexander Schmemann (Shmeman) among them. He was born in 1921 in Estonia to a family of Russian emigrants. His youth was spent in France, where he received his secondary and university education. He also 68

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studied theology in the Orthodox Institute of St Sergius in Paris which, after the Bolshevik coup d'etat, became the most important centre of Russian theological scholarship. Schmemann moved then to the United States, where St Vladimir's Seminary became his home. He was a dedicated supporter of the ecumenical movement, serving as an Orthodox observer for the Second Vatican Council of the Roman Catholic Church (1962-5). This was not accidental: he belonged to a group of Russian Orthodox theologians who participated 'along with their Roman Catholic theological and intellectual counterparts',1 in a great period of theological and liturgical ferment'.2 Their work could be called a preparation for many decisions of the Second Vatican Council. Schmemann played an important role in the establishment of the Orthodox Church in the USA as autocephalous, but at the same time he continued to be deeply concerned with the fate of Christians in the Soviet Union. For thirty years his sermons were broadcast on 'Radio Liberty', and these radio programmes made him quite influential among Russian believers. However, he has never visited Russia, and this decision was a matter of principle for him: he refused to go there while the country was under the Communist dictatorship. Fr Schmemann's experience, of course, was very different from the experience of those priests and theologians who remained in Russia at that time. But the problems which concerned him were common for all Orthodox Christians. He was absolutely dedicated to Orthodoxy, and he truly believed that Orthodoxy was a means to salvation, but at the same time he admitted that he had been terrified by what was viewed and presented as Orthodoxy by many Orthodox Christians. In a talk on Eastern Orthodoxy for the National Broadcasting Company's programme, Faith in Action, Fr Schmemann outlined that it belonged to the nature of Orthodoxy to identify itself with the total life of the community in which it lived. He saw this as a positive value, but at the same time realized better than anybody that there was a serious danger of Orthodoxy becoming an ethnic religion with worship of the ethnos at its centre. One of the problems which especially absorbed his attention remains topical for all Russian Orthodox Christians, never more so than today's Russia. In the mid-1970s Schmemann became very much concerned with the problem of a spiritually dangerous 'Orthodox stylization', which was becoming a substitute for a more organic and natural 'Orthodox style'. For many years he kept a series of secret journals in his native Russian language, which were discovered after he died. They were first published in an abridged form in English translation3 and five years later in full form in their original language.4 In the entry dated 3 October 1975, Schmemann described his visit to the Russian Orthodox Valaam monastery in Finland. Originally this monastery was in Russia on the island of Valaam in Lake Ladoga, but after the Communists came to 1 2 3 4

Lois Bouyer, Jean Danielou, Henri De Lubac, et al. Cunningham 2000. Shmeman 2000, 351. Shmeman 2005, 718.

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power it was closed, the monks escaped to Finland, and the monastery was thus relocated. It has since been restored to its original location. Schmemann's impression was very unfavourable. Fervently, fanatically, though in any case heroically, as Schmemann admits, an 86-year-old superior, who came to the monastery at the age of 14, preserved tradition. 'But what is the tradition he was so keen to cherish?' asked Fr Alexander. And he answered his own question: good as well as tasteless icons, seven hours of non-stop church service, peasant style ... All these things which were organic and salutary for the superior, were becoming a heart-wrenching game for a younger generation. The interrupted tradition gave birth to the hysterical and all-penetrating pathos of restoration. Schmemann reflected with great sadness on the tragic absence in Orthodoxy of a self-critical attitude, especially in relation to idolatry which, as he noticed, was becoming stronger and stronger. The absence of self-criticism which alarmed Schmemann is, perhaps, crucial for understanding the present-day situation in the Orthodox Church. Nothing can be more alien for the Church than the idea that reflection upon the past should carry a potential for critical orientation in the present. Painful questions which inevitably involve a re-evaluation of the Church's past, such as why, in a country in which a majority of the population was considered to have been Orthodox, the new Soviet government had so easily instituted a new state religion - atheism (which did become a religion with its cult, sacred legends, shrines, relics, and so on), or why the Orthodox population vandalized and destroyed churches with such great enthusiasm, have not been addressed. No matter what happened, the past of the Church is viewed as glorious, as the ideal state which should be restored in full. Perhaps the most painful problem for the Church is the collaboration of its hierarchy with the KGB during the Soviet period. This is an extremely important problem, since it concerns a significant number of currently serving bishops. Under public pressure, the Orthodox Church appointed a commission to look into this matter, but no information about the results of its investigations (if, of course, there were any) have ever been made public. The usual explanation - the Church had to save itself at any price - is unsatisfactory and sounds morally dubious. One might just as well argue that an antisemitic research institute in Nazi Germany, known as the Institute for Study and Eradication of Jewish Influence on the Church Life of the German Folk, which produced 'de-Judaized' versions of the New Testament and books proving that Jesus was an Aryan and an enemy of Jews, was established to defend Christianity against Nazism. In Germany after the Second World War, at least most of the tainted theologians lost their chairs and the right to teach in their universities. The painful, yet liberating, process of critical evaluation of the past in church circles took place there. But nothing similar has ever happened in Russia. During the years of communist power, the Russian Orthodox Church was one of several 'communities of memory', i.e. a group which developed a certain shared representation of the past. In a hostile

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environment this was a way to maintain a certain self-esteem. But humiliated by the Soviet regime, the Russian Orthodox Church developed the habit of drawing inspiration from the idealized past and rejecting all the values of the modern world - not only those which were promoted and cherished by Soviet society: paradise was lost to modernity as a whole. Nostalgic memory of the splendid past became the only source of true identity. Not surprisingly, as a community of memory the Church was of very little importance in the Soviet period: in totalitarian states no community of memory apart from those formed and controlled by the state itself was able to exercise any influence over society. In today's Russia, the Orthodox Church has no influence in the political or social sphere. As a modern historian of the Orthodox Church, N. Mitrokhin, puts it, 'The real political weight of the Russian Orthodox Church is similar to its impact on the Russian citizens - in both cases indexes are close to nil/5 But, as a community of memory the values of which are appealing for society, the Orthodox Church has become very important. Though the 'romance' with Orthodoxy of the first years after the collapse of the Communist regime is over, the Church still ranks highly as a spiritual authority, and in recent opinion polls was named as one of the most respected organizations. The actual numbers of churchgoers in this context is of no importance. There are different calculations by sociologists, but it seems safe to say that about half of the population of the Russian Federation identifies itself as Orthodox, though only 2 to 4 per cent of people visit a church on a regular basis, take communion, or read religious literature.6 The claim of the Orthodox Church that to be Russian inevitably means to be Orthodox has given rise to a peculiar phenomenon, the danger of which Fr Schmemann to a certain extent foresaw: quite a number of people who consider themselves Orthodox deny being Christian or even believers.7 For them, Orthodoxy and ethnicity have completely merged and Orthodoxy is a manifestation of Russianness. Thus it is of key importance which sites of memory (lieux de mémoire) the Russian Orthodox Church has elected to retain, and which ones it has rejected. The term lieux de mémoire was introduced by the French historian Pierre Nora and became the title of a vast project leading to a sevenvolume study completed under his direction. A 'site of memory' may be defined as a 'meaningful entity of a real or imagined kind, which has become a symbolic element of a given community as a result of human will or the effect of time'.8 Sites of memory, as Nancy Wood puts it, 'are quintessentially symbolic [whatever form they assume], a product of human temporal agency, and comprise the bedrock of a community symbolic repertoire'.9 5 Mitrokhin 2004, 235. 6 Mitrokhin 2004, 38. 7 In 2003 an opinion poll which was conducted in a hundred urban and rural settlements produced the following figures: 71 per cent of respondents say that they are Orthodox, but only 62 that they believe in God, see Mitrokhin 2004, 38. 8 Nora 1992, 1004, translation in Wood 1994,123 f. 9 Wood 1994,124.

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The picture of the historical past that emerges from those sites of memory regarded by the Church as providing examples for the present is a rigid and uncompromising one. All the rejected 'sites' are connected with liberal values, democracy and freedom. They are viewed as contradictory to the basic principles of the Church and therefore not suitable for Russia. Thus the period of perestroika and the early 1990s are remembered not as a period of church revival, but as a time when foreign sectarians invaded Russia. On the other hand, Stalin is viewed not as the head of a state which persecuted the Church, but rather as its benefactor. There was a short period in the history of the Orthodox Church in Russia when attempts were made to change the conservative value-set and to make the Orthodox Church more democratic and open to the real problems of real, not imaginary, society. Although at the beginning of the twentieth century, the Orthodox Church was one of the main forces behind the Black Hundred10 movement and participated in the activities of radical nationalistic organizations of which thousands of priests were members, there were also other forces operating inside church circles, i.e. a liberal movement. The prime movers in this movement were professors of theological seminaries and some enlightened priests, mostly ones based in large industrial cities. They strove for reform and the modernization of the Church, and were supported by lay intellectuals. As a result of their efforts, the Moscow Council (Ail-Russian Local Council) of 1917-18 was an absolutely unique endeavour: for the first time in Russian history the majority of the delegates came as representatives not of the high echelons of the Church, but as representatives of married clergy and lay people - of 560 delegates, only 80 were bishops. The participation of laity was of special importance: the Council brought to an end and corrected a serious distortion in church life: all Christians, not (as had previously been the case) only clergy, were recognized as active members of the Church. The work was organized along the lines of a bi-cameral parliamentary structure.11 The Moscow Council ended prematurely, and its agenda was never completed because of the Bolshevik coup d'état and the escalation of the Civil War. Though many liberal decisions were made, the results of this democratic victory were hijacked by the Soviet state, which wanted to exercise total control of social institutions, especially the Orthodox Church. The Soviet state used a vicious trick: the Communist Party supported the most liberal decisions of the Council and implemented, or pretended to implement them, with the help of the KGB (which in that period was called OGPU), thereby discrediting and compromising liberal ideas in the eyes of the majority of Orthodox believers. During the 1920s-30s the majority of the Russian clergy was exterminated, but when in 1944 the Communist government decided to use the Orthodox Church as a consolidating force in the 10 A far-right organization in Russia at the beginning of the twentieth century which was responsible for Jewish pogroms. 11 See a talk 'The 1917-18 Council of the Russian Orthodox Church' given by Professor Alexei Svetozarsky at the 2003 Conference of the Sourozh Diocese on 13 November 2006 (www.exardiate-i^oig/Sermons_talks/Svetozarsky.html)/ who describes the Council as 'a bright beacon and a guiding star'.

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struggle with Nazi Germany and to reinstate it as an institution, power over the Church was given to the conservative forces.12 From that point on such words as 'reform7 and 'development' became tantamount to obscenities in church circles. Lay people who played an important role during the Moscow Council were now deprived of any influence inside the Church, and hope for the democratization of church life came to a halt. The ideal sites of memory for the Orthodox Church have become connected with an anti-liberal and anti-democratic set of values. An important element of this picture is a negative attitude towards the demonized West, which is believed to cherish a dream of destroying and humiliating Russia completely. Thus, for example, Vladimir, Archbishop of Tashkent and of Central Asia, whose position is considered to be a moderate one, has declared that: A wave of 'mass culture', total and all-encompassing propaganda of vice has whipped in from the west onto Russian land, filling newspapers, radio, movies, television, and depriving the Russian people not only of spiritual, but of moral progress, leading Russia into decadence and annihilation. All the murderous element of the 'Western campaign' with its refined treachery, calculated by world power structures, do not even hide their goal: genocide, complete annihilation of the Russian people ... We are confronted with government statistics which show the rapid decrease of the Russian, and to this very day neither governmental, nor public figures have undertaken any significant measures to counteract the genocide of the Fatherland. Only the Russian Orthodox Church, robbed and drained of its blood, struggles with all its remaining strength against the spiritual, moral, and physical annihilation of its God-chosen people/13 Such negative attitudes towards the West are interlaced with a xenophobic attitude both toward peoples who lived in the former Soviet Union and now have become citizens of the independent states, and to those non-Russians who live in the Russian Federation Caucasians, Jews, Tartars and others.14 Twelve years ago, the late Metropolitan loann of St Petersburg and Ladoga, who was a member of the Holy Synod (i.e. belonged to the highest echelon of the church hierarchy), published a book entitled The Autocracy of the Spirit, which aimed to explain for a lay readership the basic ideas and traditions of the Russian Orthodox Church and its view of Russian history.15 This deeply nationalistic and antisemitic book, which was published in many thousands of copies,16 became a kind of 12 13 14 15 16

Mitrokhin 2003, 489f. Mitrokhin 2003, 258f. Mitrokhin 2003, 265. Samoderzhaviye ducha, St Petersburg: Izdatel'stvo L. S. Yakovlevoj, 1994. The first edition was printed in 15,000 copies, and in 1996 the publishing house 'Tsarskoye délo' printed an additional 12,000 copies. The book is also available on the Internet.

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'Holy Scripture' for Russian nationalists and conservative forces within the Church. But not only for them: because of its open antisemitism, it was accepted and praised also by anti-Christian nationalists and neopagans. Extracts from this book were published by the Communist newspaper Sovetskaya Rossiya (Soviet Russia)', the author's death was mourned by a neo-pagan newspaper Za russkoye délo (For the Russian Cause).17 Though during the last decade the Russian book market has been flooded with similar works, the book by Metropolitan loann remains a classic example of the genre, and still offers the fullest account of the influential historical myths and conceptions in a condensed and lucid form. Since the book has not been repudiated by the church authorities, many of its readers consider it to represent the position of the Russian Orthodox Church. And they are perhaps right: although official church documents do not explicitly articulate the ideas found in the book, loann's views are no means marginal, and have been recited on many occasions by numerous bishops who belong to fundamentalist and traditionalist wings of the Orthodox clergy. According to the book, throughout her history, Russia has been the victim of a global conspiracy aimed at wiping her off the face of the earth.18 The reason that Russia is worthy of so dubious a distinction is that she has been chosen by God to carry true Orthodox Christianity to the world. Consequently, the enemies of Russia are the enemies of Orthodoxy, and, since only Orthodoxy represents true Christianity, they are enemies of Christianity itself. As a constant victim of conspiracy, Russia has many enemies - the Masons, the World Government, the Ecumenists, and the West ruled by the USA. Her main opponent, however, both historically and eschatologically, is the Jewish nation. Traditionally, religious anti-Judaism in the Russian Orthodox Church has had a place of honour. It was deeply rooted in tsarist Russia, in which Orthodoxy was a state religion, and it continues to be an integral part of Orthodox teachings. Supersessionist liturgical texts advancing the idea that Israel was superseded by the Christian Church are never questioned. Only some priests who serve outside Russia follow the example of the Roman Catholic, Anglican and other Protestant Churches and dare to eliminate supersessionist texts from services - at their own risk, and without official approval. One such priest, Fr Yves Dubois, has noted that anti-Jewish feelings among Orthodox believers have become even stronger than ever: 'The urgency of a break-away from anti-Judaism in liturgical texts of the Orthodox Church is increased by the presence of anti-Semitism in our Church/19 The religious charge of déicide, which was a traditional accusation from the second century AD onwards, is now interwined with racial antisemitism, which implies that the Jews have certain inborn and permanent negative qualities. They are blamed for the tragic turn of Russian history in 1917 and hence for the disasters the Orthodox Church experienced in the twentieth century. Never mind 17 Shnirelman 2002, 79. 18 See in detail my review on this book: Levinskaya 1995. 19 Dubois 1996, 35.

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that synagogues were destroyed with no less ardour than church buildings. For Metropolitan loann, the whole history of Russia revolves around the struggle with Jews and Judaism, which is a struggle of light against dark, of the people of God against the God-killers: 'All the burden of the hatred of the God-killers was naturally and unavoidably concentrated on the People of God, who had been given the task of maintaining the true faith';20 'The Orthodox understanding of being chosen is an understanding of an obligation to serve one's neighbour. The Jewish understanding of being chosen is a desire to dominate surrounding peoples. It is thus understandable how contact between such radically different ways of looking at life and at one's place in the world could only produce noxious, destructive and catastrophic events';21 'The conversion of Russia to Christianity only increased the hostility of the Jews to Russians. History has brought us echoes of this burning religious hatred ... with time, the list of Orthodox Christian martyrs at the hands of the Jews has grown/22 According to Metropolitan loann, Jews, after nearly destroying Orthodoxy in Russia, continued to weave a web of deceit and intrigue in their efforts to establish a world government of their own. Through manipulation, Jews are the true rulers of the world. Though their conspiracy was exposed by The Protocols of the Elders of Zion (Metropolitan loann does not share the widely held view that this pamphlet is an antisemitic forgery), they have managed to corrupt all humanity, and now modern Russia, with the infection of democracy, lives under threat, being the last bastion of resistance. Salvation from eschatological catastrophe can come only in the form of an ideal Christian state. Such a state involves central control of economic planning, absolutism, isolationism, strict centralism, war against democracy, and a denial of human rights, not only as a priority, but even as a concept. This state, which would be completely identical with the Russian Orthodox Church, would introduce spiritual censorship through the control of the mass media, and at the same time, would support an Orthodox foreign policy. In addition, the Russian Christian state would be re-established in its 'natural borders', that is, the borders of the former Russian Empire. The Metropolitan never conceals his deep sympathy to totalitarianism and, not surprisingly, after the Russian Empire the most attractive political systems for him are early German Nazism and Stalinism in its last, nationalistic phase (1945-53). It should be admitted that many of Metropolitan loann's dreams have come true. In 1997, a new federal law on religion was passed which replaced the 1990 ruling. The latter was the most democratic law Russia has ever had; for the first time in her history all religions and religious organizations on her territory acquired equal rights. Under strong pressure of the Russian Orthodox Church, the law was changed in its favour. The 1997 law started with the preamble in which a separate note 20 Metropolitan loann 1994,119. 21 Metropolitan loann 1994, 256. 22 Metropolitan loann 1994, 44 n.

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was made of 'the special contribution of Orthodoxy to Russian history and to the development of Russian spirituality and culture'. On the next line of the same preamble, reverence 'toward Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Judaism and other religions' is mentioned, which leaves an uncomfortable feeling that Christianity and Orthodoxy in the eyes of a lawgiver are somewhat different. This may perhaps explain why in the opinion polls people admit themselves to be Orthodox without being Christian. The 1997 law also introduced the anti-constitutional 15-year rule, under which religious communities must function for 15 years before obtaining legal status. Constitutionally, Russia is a secular state without any state religion and all religious organizations are equal before the law, but the developments of the past few years show Orthodoxy becoming 'first among equals'. On 27 May 2003, after conducting a wide-ranging survey, the Forum 18 News Service reported that: without any change in the law or Constitution to provide for them, the steady increase in concordat-style agreements between the Russian Orthodox Church and various organs of state at federal and local level has given the Orthodox Church increased power ... These agreements give the Church special access to institutions such as prisons, the police, the FSB [former KGB], the army, schools and hospitals, and emphasize Orthodoxy as the legitimate ideology of Russian state tradition.23 This is openly admitted by church officials - thus in one speech Metropolitan Kirill of Smolensk and Kaliningrad (a permanent member of the Holy Synod and Chairman of the Department for External Church Relations of the Moscow Patriarchate) characterized Russia not as a multi-confessional nation, but as an Orthodox country with religious minorities. In more public settings, however, he uses different language, and locates the concórdate position of the Russian Orthodox Church within the context of human rights: 'In those countries where the Russian Church has a presence, it speaks out for the teaching of Orthodox culture in secular schools, for the introduction of chaplaincies, the presence of religious topics in the media and the social ministry of religious organizations. Today Orthodox public opinion is aiming at being included in the advocacy of human rights in all realms of social life/24 The Russian Orthodox Church supports and provides an ideological basis for the rejection of democratic values and an autocratic turn in contemporary Russian political life. It is this very phenomenon which explains how the Russian powers-that-be, purposefully destructive of the democratic reforms of the preceding decade, increasingly turn to the Church as their ideological mainstay and ideal community of memory. 23 Fagan 2003. 24 Presentation by Metropolitan Kirill of Smolensk and Kaliningrad, Chairman of the Department for External Church Relations of the Moscow Patriarchate, at the Moral Values and Evolution of Human Rights in Multicultural Society Conference, 6 November 2006.

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To sum up, the vector, completely oriented towards the past, which became dominant in the life of the Orthodox Church in Russia during the early twentieth century, is becoming more and more destructive, especially given the tendency characteristic of various religious fundamentalist groups to use the pseudo-restoration of 'the glorious past' as a springboard for their political activity. The search for a new identity which, on the one hand, will not compromise the historical roots of the Orthodox tradition and, on the other hand, will be compatible with liberal values is first and foremost connected with a radical change in this vector.

The Russian Orthodox Church and the European Union: Constructing a Russian Orthodox Identity in Europe Grant S. White

A. Introduction and background With the collapse of communist regimes throughout Eastern Europe and Russia beginning in 1989 the place of the local Orthodox churches acquired new significance in the religious, political and cultural landscape of Europe.1 As the countries of the former Soviet Bloc began to seek entry into the European Union the question began to arise for the first time of the presence of European countries which were historically Eastern Orthodox. Although it was no longer possible to describe these countries simply as 'Orthodox countries' given the effects of communism and an emerging international consumerist culture on their religious culture, still in each country the Orthodox church in the immediate postcommunist period asserted its place in national life and culture, sometimes demanding a return to one or another historical era embodying the Byzantine symphonia of church and state, sometimes accepting the contemporary place of the Church in an emerging pluralistic society but asserting the authoritative role of the Church in articulating national religious, moral and ethical values. In this context the Russian Orthodox Church occupies an interesting position as an institution rooted in a non-EU country but with not insignificant numbers of members residing outside its borders. This is not a unique situation. One effect of the migration of peoples in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, coupled with the rise of nationalism and the historically important role of Orthodox churches in fostering and supporting nationalist ideologies, was the emergence in the twentieth century of the phenomenon of jurisdictionalism. Jurisdictionalism is the ideology that supports the simultaneous existence of more than one Orthodox church, each identified with a particular national or ethnic group, in the same geographical location. Thus, in a major European city such as Paris one finds Russian, Serbian, Greek, Romanian, Coptic and other Orthodox parishes, each of which is affiliated with one or another ecclesiastical jurisdiction, usually in the mother country. From the point 1 By the canonical term 'local Orthodox churches7 is meant each national Orthodox church, for example, the Russian Orthodox Church.

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of view of Orthodox Christian theology and canon law, jurisdictionalism is at best an anomaly, at worst an aberration. Theologically and canonically speaking, there is to be only one church in any city. What is perhaps unique in the situation of the Russian Orthodox Church in this context is the complex and well-known historical relationship of Russia to Europe. However one might define the ecclesiastical issues that arose following the Bolshevik Revolution, these all played out, and continued to play out even more intensively following 1989, against the backdrop of, and even as manifestations of, the ambivalent attitude of Russia toward Europe. In addition, the maintenance of Russian émigré communities in European countries naturally raised the question of Russian identity in an expanding Europe striving to define itself as much in terms of European identity as with reference to the national identities of each member state. In the postSoviet era, one of the tasks of Russian societal institutions has been the construction (or, as some apologists would claim, a reclaiming) of a Russian identity for post-communist Russia. In the ideological battle for this definition of Russianness (and indeed for the question of whether one can speak of a monolithic 'Russian identity'), the re-emergent Orthodox Church of Russia could have been expected to claim a prominent, even aggressive, role. Due to the exile and emigration of Russians from the Soviet Union beginning in the 1920s the Russian Orthodox Church was soon confronted with the reality of jurisdictionalism in Europe.2 The Orthodox communities that came into existence in Yugoslavia, Prague, Berlin, Paris and London manifested the tensions in the Russian émigré communities between those who wished to maintain their loyalty to the Patriarch of Moscow, and those who believed that the Church under the communists had become hopelessly compromised.3 By the late 1980s there were sizeable Russian émigré communities in France, Germany and the United Kingdom, with Orthodox churches serving them aligned with the Moscow Patriarchate, the Ecumenical Patriarchate, the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia, and other smaller jurisdictions. B. The creation of representations: response to a new European situation The existence of dioceses of the Moscow Patriarchate in the countries of Western Europe, coupled with the existence of Moscow Patriarchate 2 The Russian Orthodox Church had been in North America since the 1790s, beginning with missions to the native peoples of Alaska. By the early twentieth century the headquarters of the Church had moved from San Francisco to New York, and the church was ruled by a metropolitan appointed by the Holy Synod of the Russian Church. Metropolitan Tikhon (Bellavin), the first to hold the reconstituted office of Patriarch of Moscow, had served as head of the Russian Orthodox Church in North America. 3 The schism between the two churches (i.e. the Russian Orthodox Church and the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia) was formally healed in autumn 2006 with the publication of an Act of Canonical Communion on 1 November 2006.

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parishes in the former Soviet Bloc countries applying for European Union membership, created a situation in which the Moscow Patriarchate had considerable interest in the development of the European Union. The response to this situation was the creation on 17 July 2002 of the Representation to the European Institutions in Brussels, and the creation on 24 March 2004 of the Representation to the Council of Europe in Strasbourg. Both came into existence through acts of the Holy Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church. It should be noted here that the Russian Federation has held membership in the Council of Europe since 28 February 1996, whereas it is neither a member nor a candidate country of the European Union. The Strasbourg representation maintains a website in English, French and Russian, while the Brussels representation maintains a website in English and Russian with materials on the English website in English, French and German.4 The heads of both representations are young Russian hierarchs with international experience. Hegumen Philaret (Bulekov) was born in 1967 in Moscow and studied at the Moscow State University and then at the Moscow Theological Academy, graduating with a Master of Theology degree and a thesis on the Maronite Church. He served in the Department of External Church Relations and in the Representation of the Moscow Patriarchate to the Patriarchate of Antioch. For four years he worked as priest of a Russian Orthodox parish in Johannesburg, South Africa, before being named as Representative to the Council of Europe.5 Bishop Hilarión (Alfeyev) was born in 1966 and first studied music before turning to theology, graduating from the Moscow Theological Academy and later Oxford University with a D.Phil, in theology. He served in the Department of External Church Relations before being named assistant bishop of the Diocese of Sourozh (United Kingdom). While in that post he was named the Representative to the European Institutions. In 2003 he was elected Bishop of Vienna and Austria, and also given the title of Administrator of the Diocese of Budapest and Hungary.6 Bishop Hilarión is also a widely respected Orthodox theologian who holds two doctorates and who is the author of several books and articles on Orthodox theology and current events in the Orthodox churches. He was a participant in the 2006 meeting of the reinaugurated international theological dialogue between the Orthodox churches and the Catholic Church. At this meeting he caused a stir by lodging an objection with Cardinal Walter Kasper, President of the Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity, concerning the dialogue's method of voting on theological positions rather than coming to agreement through consensus.7 4 This essay relies primarily on documents and statements released by each representation on its website, as the websites appear to be viewed by the representations as the primary vehicle for the publication of their documentation and opinions. 5 Representation of the Russian Orthodox Church in Strasbourg 2006. 6 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006a. 7 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006b. Bishop Hilarion's position reflects the lack of consensus among the Orthodox churches regarding the status of the Ecumenical Patriarch vis-à-vis the other Orthodox patriarchs and the

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C. The purpose of the Representations In his letter of 3 October 2002 to then-President of the European Commission Romano Prodi, the Patriarch of Moscow Alexei II noted, The Russian Orthodox Church works for bringing a creative contribution to the development of the spiritual, philosophical and moral foundations of cooperation between the peoples of Europe through her believers who live in different countries, as well as through direct dialogue between the authorities of the Moscow Patriarchate and the European intergovernmental institutions.8

The letter continues by asserting that the 'considerable Orthodox community' created by the accession to the European Union of countries with Orthodox populations 'has the right to make its significant contribution to defining the basic structures of European integration'.9 In Alexei's view, the entry of Central and Eastern European countries into the European Union 'presents] the problem of the preservation and development of the style of life of the traditionally Orthodox nations'. Therefore, the role of the Russian Orthodox representation is: to cooperate with the EU agencies in the field of developing an integral dimension of a united Europe. [The Russian Orthodox Church] can take part in discussing the problems of inter-ethnic and inter-religious relations and in elaborating legislation which would regulate the status of religious communities. Moreover, representatives of the Church have something to say on the issues of the philosophical basis of law, dialogue among civilizations, common European security, prevention and overcoming of conflicts, social problems, the ethics of applying modern technologies, migration, etc.10 Assumed but undefined in Alexei's statement is an Orthodox 'style of life' to be the object of preservation and development in the Europe of the future. On the surface, the Patriarch's statement appears to be rooted in a romantic notion of the Orthodox past in Russia and in other historically Orthodox nations.11 Such language typically belongs to the claims of minority groups to protection under law: that is, the claim to a distinctive way of life forms part of the argument to majorities about the necessity of Pope, although the exact extent of this lack of consensus is unclear. A possible theological background to Hilarion's intervention is the ongoing dispute about the place of the Moscow Patriarchate in the galaxy of Orthodox churches in the world today, which itself has roots in the interpretation of Moscow as the "Third Rome', heir to Christian spiritual and political leadership after the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Hilarion's objection could be interpreted as an attempt to forestall any marginalization of the Moscow Patriarchate in future bilateral conversations. 8 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006e. 9 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006e. 10 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006e. 11 In this respect, note Alexei's use of the phrase 'traditionally Orthodox countries'. The appeal to identity on a traditional basis implies more than simple historical identity, but an ongoing, transhistorical reality.

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recognition and protection by the majority. However, in the case of Russian Orthodox use of this terminology there is a seeming conflict with the claims also made by the Russian Orthodox Church, namely, that it represents the 'largest' Orthodox church in Europe, if not in the world: in other words, a majority.12 The statement of Bishop Hilarión on the purpose of the Representation largely repeats and amplifies the points made in this letter. He enumerates three major purposes of the Representation: (1) to 'take part both in discussing specific problems related, directly or indirectly, to the religious situation in the countries of the European Union, and in discussing the theoretical foundations of European integration'; (2) to 'establish direct contact with the Western media'; (3) to 'maintain and develop inter-Christian and inter-religious contacts, as well as to clarify the position of the Russian Church on burning issues in the area of interChurch relations'.13 Hilarión expands on this last point by noting, 'Christians of various confessions have common positions on many questions related to Christian witness to the secular world and to the role of religion in uniting Europe, as well as on many social and political issues. It is important that in discussing these issues European Christians should be able to put up a united front/14

D. Orthodoxy and Catholicism in Europe: new convergences This final point is of special significance, particularly from the point of view of the role of the Catholic Church in an expanding Europe and the role of Catholic-Orthodox relations in the post-Soviet era. In comparison, the Catholic and Orthodox approaches to religion and European culture are similar. For example, section 4 of the 'Common Declaration by Pope Benedict XVI and Patriarch Bartholomew F, issued at the conclusion of Benedict XVTs first visit to Turkey as Pope, outlines a common Catholic and Orthodox approach to Europe: We have viewed positively the process that has led to the formation of the European Union. Those engaged in this great project should not fail to take into consideration all aspects affecting the inalienable rights of the human person, especially religious freedom, a witness and guarantor of respect for all other freedoms. In every step towards unification, minorities must be protected, with their cultural traditions and the distinguishing features of their religion. In Europe, while remaining open to other religions and to their cultural contributions, we must unite our efforts to preserve Christian roots, traditions and values, to ensure respect for history, 12 Of course, these claims (as is the case with any religious organization's own stated membership estimates) must be viewed critically. For example, the criteria the Church applies to the category of membership are unclear. 13 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006d. 14 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006d.

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and thus to contribute to the European culture of the future and to the quality of human relations at every level. 15 The themes of 'rights of the human person', respect for religious freedom, protection of minorities and their traditions, and especially 'preservation' of the 'Christian roots' of European culture appear in the statements, documents and articles that appear on the sites of both representations. Especially notable in this regard are the papers produced by the conference 'Give a Soul to Europe: The Mission and Responsibility of the Churches', held in Vienna 3-5 May 2006. The gathering was co-sponsored by the Pontifical Council for Culture and the Department of External Church Relations of the Moscow Patriarchate, and represents a major effort by both churches to address the issue of the Christian identity of Europe. The final statement of the conference notes that 'the Orthodox and Catholic traditions belong to the same European civilization', and that the two churches are united: by an identical view of the way in which contemporary public and private life should be arranged. We believe that European civilization requires the protection and promotion of human freedom and dignity. At the same time, we see Europe's successful development as based on a solid but flexible system of forming the morally responsible personality.16 After stating the need for moral education directed toward the creation of a just and peaceful state, the statement stresses the place of religious organizations in the work of moral education in all spheres of society: Traditional religious organizations have the right to work with all people of good will in the fields of culture, science, education and the media. In many ways culture as a bearer of faith both in the past and present is our principal ally in the cause of religious education. Music, cinema, theatre and new forms of creative work inspired by the Christian message should find a worthy place in contemporary life, including the area of mass media.17 The statement concludes with an expression of desire for 'common action' with all groups who view freedom and moral responsibility as key to the survival and development of Europe, and of willingness to enter into dialogue with any groups who disagree but who are nonetheless open to dialogue. Another sign of the construction of a common front uniting Orthodox and Catholics on moral and social questions was the essay of the Representative to the Council of Europe penned in response to Muslim reaction to the 12 September 2006 Regensburg lecture of Pope Benedict XVI. In that lecture, the Pope's quotation of a medieval Byzantine emperor's views on Islam were taken by many in the Islamic world as 15 www.patriarchate.org/press/articles.php?id=99, accessed 05.12.2006. 16 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006c. 17 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2006c.

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representing his personal views on the content of Islam. Calling much of the response 'a politicised assessment of a religious statement', Hegumen Bulekov concluded his analysis of the situation with the following exhortation: In starting interfaith dialogue with the aim to find possibilities for co-existence in harmony, it is necessary to recognize the right of interlocutors to express their own beliefs and to remain their own selves. Without respect for the opinion of the other, even if his opinion differs from your own, dialogue and its result - mutual understanding are impossible. If the Islamic world really desires to be understood and heard in Europe and generally in the Christian world, it should meet Christians halfway on the way to true dialogue. It is inadmissible to venture on hasty and harsh reactions to what is expressed on the discussion basis. It is all the more inadmissible when complex issues are discussed on which there is no agreement. It is equally necessary to find ways of propagating the very culture of dialogue and mutual respect among the faithful at large and to oppose any politicization of interfaith relations and any attempt to entice enmity among bearers of different cultures on the grounds of religious differences.18 This robust defence of the Catholics' position in the controversy concentrates on the values of dialogue, coexistence and mutual understanding, themes appearing elsewhere in the statements of the two representations. At the same time, there is also a tone here that seems to derive more from the world of Samuel Huntingdon's 'clash of civilizations' than from the arena of liberal, pluralistic society. Addressing 'the Islamic world' as it does, the statement lacks the kind of critical, nuanced approach to contemporary Islamic communities necessary to promote the kind of dialogue and harmonious coexistence it calls for.

E. Maintaining Russian identity in the emigration At the same time as it has worked to form alliances with the Catholic Church to promote moral education and a Christian identity for the whole of Europe, the Russian Orthodox Church has also striven to reinforce the notion of a Russian community within Europe for which the Church has responsibility in terms not only of religion but also of language and culture. From 3 to 4 December 2004 a conference titled 'The Russian-speaking population in the enlarged European Union' was held in Brussels. In his message to conference participants, Metropolitan Kyrill, head of the Department of External Church Relations, noted:

18 Bulekov 2006.

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The Russian Orthodox Church has had a long history of its presence in Western Europe. This presence fías never been conditioned by a wish to convert other people into her faith. The appearance of parishes and dioceses here was caused by the necessity to care for the believers of the Russian Church, who lived in the countries of the West temporarily or permanently. However, during the years of her pastoral activity the Russian Orthodox Church has become a Mother Church for many people who belong to original nationalities and cultures of Western Europe, such as Englishmen, French, Spaniards, Flemings, Lithuanians, Latvians, Estonians, Hungarians, Italians and many others. Therefore the Russian Church is concerned over the living conditions, in which other people of Europe live. At the same time the Russian Church maintains the Orthodox tradition, which has been shaped within the Russian nation, and it is with this fact that her particular care for the preservation and maintenance of Russian culture is linked.19 This apologia for the creation of Russian Orthodox parishes and dioceses in Western Europe, and for the Church's presence 'never having been conditioned by a wish to convert other people into her faith' clearly reflects the issues in the international Catholic-Orthodox dialogue, which at the time of KyrilTs statement had been suspended since 1990. One of the reasons for the rupture was the situation of Eastern Rite Catholics and Orthodox in the western Ukraine, in which the right to church property on both sides was disputed, and which played out against a long history of what the Orthodox side termed 'uniatism', or the uniting of Orthodox populations to the Catholic Church while allowing them to maintain the use of their liturgical and canonical traditions, a practice dating in that region from 1596 and the Union of Brest-Litovsk. The more recent history of the relations between the two communities included the forced réintégration into the Orthodox Church, in the 1940s, of Eastern Rite Catholic populations in the Ukraine by the Soviet regime. Each side disputed the historical account held by the other. Another reason for the suspension of the dialogue was Russian Orthodox objection to what it termed 'proselytism' on the part of Catholics in Russia following the collapse of the Soviet regime. Pointing to the concept of 'canonical territory', the Russian Orthodox Church claimed that Russia historically was the canonical territory of that church, and therefore the Catholic Church had no right to evangelize in its territory or set up new parishes and dioceses in response to what the Catholic side saw as the legitimate pastoral needs of Catholic populations in Russia, some of whom had lived in Russia since the time of Catherine the Great.20 19 Russian Orthodox Representation to the European Institutions 2004. 20 As noted above, the international theological dialogue resumed in September 2006. Accusations of proselytism continue to be made by Russian Orthodox hierarchs. Catholic hierarchs, for their part, have admitted that unauthorized Catholic groups have proselytized in Russia, but continue to insist that the official policy of the Catholic Church is not to proselytize Russian Orthodox believers in Russia.

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What is new in the Russian Orthodox position about canonical territory as it has developed since 1991 is the church hierarchy's insistence that the presence of Russians in any location in the world implies the right of the Orthodox Church of Russia to extend its jurisdiction to that location, in the name of providing pastoral support for Russians, who are identified, de facto, as Orthodox believers. This is a problematic stance involving a new interpretation of the concept of canonical territory, as well as an explicit attempt to identify Russianness with Orthodox identity. This approach to Russian identity is dangerous because it is founded upon a romantic notion of Russia as a purely Orthodox country. Such an interpretation of the nation ignores 'the long history of presence' (to use Kyrill's phrase referring to Russian communities in Western Europe) of Russian Muslim, Buddhist, animist, Catholic and Protestant communities. Such a view of Russianness cannot but in time contribute to xenophobia, not only in Russia itself but also in Russian émigré communities.

F. Battling 'secular humanism' and liberal Protestantism In establishing its position within the institutions of the European Union and the Council of Europe, the Russian Orthodox Church has identified itself as a 'traditional' religion, in contrast to those religious communities which have allied themselves with what is typically identified as 'liberalism' or 'secular humanism'. For example, in his essay Traditional and liberal values in the debate between Christianity and secularism', Bishop Hilarión puts the question of values in the context of globalization and responses to it. He continues, Today only religion is systematically resisting the desperate attack of globalisation, entering into an unequal battle for the defence of those values which it considers fundamental and which are being challenged by globalisation. Only religion is able to counter the ideology of globalisation with its own system of spiritual and moral orientation based on the centuries-long experience of generations acquired during the pre-globalisation age.21 Having defined globalization and religion as seemingly opposing forces, he distinguishes between two different kinds of religious response to globalization: 'traditional' and 'liberal'. He sees the 'common human values' on which globalization (and the secular humanist philosophy underlying it) is based, as comprising more than the 'spiritual values' of morality and justice. Rather, a secular view of common human values includes 'the affirmation of the right of each individual to his/her own way of life, which extends insofar as it does not cause harm to others.' In Hilarion's view this interpretation of human values ignores the reality of sin and places the individual and his or her self-fulfilment at the centre, rather than God. He outlines three possible responses to 'the challenge of 21 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2005.

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totalitarian liberalism and militant secularism': violent reaction, accommodation (which he associates with the majority of Protestants and Anglicans), and a third option with which he identifies as: the attempt to enter into a peaceful, non-aggressive, though obviously unequal, dialogue with it, with the aim of achieving a balance between the liberal-democratic model of Western societal structure and the religious way of life. Such a path [Hilarión says] has been chosen by Christian Churches that have remained faithful to tradition, namely the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches, as well as several non-Christian religions such as Judaism, Buddhism and moderate Islam.22 Hilarion's analysis proceeds from the opposition of tradition to modernity, and seeks to build an understanding of 'traditional religion' that will be broad enough to encompass not only Orthodox and Catholics but other religions which themselves are 'faithful to tradition'. However, this analysis is unsatisfactory, even as a sketch or overview of a larger project. Hilarión does not provide a fundamental définition of tradition, nor does he elaborate on the shades of meaning in the terms 'tradition' and 'traditional'. In drawing other world religious traditions into his definition Hilarion's discussion could be viewed as drawing upon ideas from the broad school of thought known as Traditionalism, identified chiefly with René Guenon and the so-called philosophia perennis. One prominent element of Guénon's thought is critique of modernity, a point accepted and developed by other Traditionalist thinkers. Occasionally Traditionalism has been associated with political views well to the right of the 'liberal-democratic model' Alfeyev sets in opposition to traditional religions. Is there likewise in Alfeyev's critique an implicit political position? Although Hilarión eschews violent reaction to modernity, it is not clear where in his view traditional religions are to draw the line between legitimate response and violent reaction. Finally, his depiction of Protestants and Anglicans seems overdrawn and simplistic. To be fair to Hilarión, one aim of the article seems to be to stake out a position for the Russian Orthodox Church that both maintains its unique identity and also seeks to avoid being drawn into a reactionary sectarianism.

G. Conclusions The Russian Orthodox representations in Europe are in their infancy. Already, however, it is possible to say that the Russian Orthodox Church is keen to establish a vigorous presence in the places of European political decision-making. In so doing, the church is stating clearly that Russia identifies closely with Europe. In constructing a public Russian Orthodox identity in Europe, the church's representations have also allied themselves with the Catholic Church and its positions on social, 22 Russian Orthodox Church Representation to the European Institutions 2005.

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moral and ethical issues. Even as it has addressed issues affecting all Europeans, the church has also sought to nurture the self-consciousness and identity of Russian communities in Europe, and to identify their Russianness with Russian Orthodoxy. Finally, in speaking firmly and broadly against 'secular humanism' the church has clearly taken sides on the issue of modernity versus tradition. There are, however, issues whose outcome is not so clear. Foremost among them is the question of Russian identity and its religious implications in an expanding Europe. Put most simply, does being Russian mean that one is by definition Orthodox as well? As suggested above, the European representations' statements on Russian identity and Europe seem to be based on an ahistorical, romantic vision of Russia as an Orthodox country, with little recognition of the long presence of other religious traditions in Russia. Is such a simplistic understanding of Russia suited to deal with the complex realities of a multicultural, pluralistic Europe? One of the effects of the October Revolution was the fragmentation of Orthodoxy of the Russian tradition into larger and smaller Russian Orthodox groups in the emigration. After the fall of the Soviet state, one task of the Moscow Patriarchate has been to reintegrate this fragmented Russian Orthodoxy. An ahistorical vision of a former Orthodox Russia may serve to promote the reunion of the disparate Russian Orthodox communities. However, is the price for such reunion too high? In seeking to unite all Russians under the aegis of the Russian Orthodox Church, it is difficult to see how the church will be able to avoid fostering the theological heresy of phyletism, in which the Russian Orthodox Church comes to be identified simply as the church for Russians. Although official church statements disavow phyletism, it remains to be seen if, on the level of local parishes, such warnings will be heeded. How will the church instil in its members resident in Europe the values of dialogue and tolerance it says are critical for Europe to possess, while at the same time it fosters a distinctive Russian identity in Europe? In addition, in seeking to bring all Russians in Europe under Russian Orthodox care, the church may well be inhibiting the development of a local Orthodox church of Western Europe, in which no one nationality defines the total ethos of the church. In other words, the question of jurisdictionalism continues to loom large. Another issue concerns the ability of the church to recognize the diversity of views on modernity within Orthodoxy itself, and whether it has the capacity to find allies even in those Christian communities that identify themselves strongly with modernity. Is the religious and philosophical debate in Europe really as clearly drawn between nonreligious 'secularists' and people of 'traditional' religious affiliation as the representations' statements suggest? There is diversity both within and without Orthodoxy; in coming to terms positively and creatively with that diversity the Russian Orthodox Church may make its greatest contribution to an expanding Europe.

The Impact of Post-1989 Changes on Polish-Jewish Relations and Perceptions: Memories and Debates Slawomir Kapralski Memory and identity have been intrinsically linked, at least since the advent of modernity and its idea of identity as a reflexive project. Since then, any construction of identity (understood here as that which enables the maintenance of a sense of the 'sameness' of an individual or collective self) has been articulated with a more or less conscious reference to the past. Modern societies, in opposition to traditional ones, do not treat the past as a self-evident legacy to be taken for granted and passed on to future generations untouched. Instead, they permanently reorganize the past in order to make it useful in securing or legitimizing the ways in which an individual or group envisions its future according to its present needs and circumstances.1 An individual or collective identity is in modern society a form of self-possession, within which memory functions as a form of capital that we need to accumulate in order to be able to invest in the future.2 As a form of capital, memory is placed in a field of cultural competition, in which a 'remembered' past is frequently used as a 'weapon against the past of someone else'.3 This chapter presents one such field, in which post-communist identities of Polish society confront the memory of the Holocaust. Michael Steinlauf's Bondage to the Dead: Poland and the Memory of the Holocaust4 ends with a chapter entitled 'Memory Regained?' The intention of this chapter is to discuss the question mark that expresses Steinlauf's uncertainty regarding the real impact of Polish 'memory work' on attitudes towards Jews and perspectives on the history of Polish-Jewish relations. In particular, I would argue that one decade after the publication of Steinlauf's book, the memory of the Holocaust and of Jews has not been properly regained. Noteworthy in this context are the sociological data, which show the growing polarization of Polish society regarding attitudes towards Jews, and the growth in the number of Poles who declare that during the Second World War Jews and Poles suffered in a similar or comparable way. In the following discussion, I will try to explain these in many ways 1 Halbwachs 1992. 2 Sennet 1998. 3 Judt 1992, 99. 4 Published in 1997.

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surprising results by inserting them into three frames of interpretation. The first frame is the context in which Jews have been debated by the Poles in the last twenty years. I suggest that the sequence of Polish debates5 followed a progressive pattern of revealing the truth step by step, which prepared public opinion to accept uncomfortable facts, but also helped to mobilize defensive reactions and to shift the public away from the issues discussed. In this context, Richard Sennet's reinterpretation of Maurice Halbwachs' theory will be evoked to point out the main problems attached to Polish attempts to come to terms with the past. The second frame of interpretation has emerged out of the post-communist transformation of collective memory: memory may be understood as a process that has moved from myth to critical remembrance to 'affirmative history'. The main issues discussed here will be the politicization of memory, cultural insecurity, and trauma of transformation. Finally, the third frame will refer to the changing status of memory in postmodern culture, and more specifically to commemorative practice, which - to use Saul Friedlander's words - makes the past 'both pervasive and apparently irrelevant'.6 In the concluding section I will suggest a few hypotheses concerning the role of religion in the three frames of interpretation outlined above. A. Memory regained? ?

Memory of Jews in general and of the Holocaust in particular was by and large erased or misconstrued in communist Poland. In part, this erasure of memory was of course a tragic consequence of the annihilation of Jewish life in Poland. In a very specific sense memory has been erased because its most obvious bearers perished in the Holocaust. In a more general sense, though, the erasure of the Jewish memory was also a part of the communist 'politics of remembrance', rooted in the ideological vision of history, in which 'class' mattered as a source of identity, rather than any other affiliation, and which assumed that homogeneous society constituted the telos of human history. On the other hand, the changing pragmatics of communist political strategy contributed to the occasional alliances between the Marxist vision of history and nationalist ideology, and antisemitism was frequently used by the communist authorities as a tool in the political struggles between factions and as a means of gaining popular support and legitimation. The vernacular culture, for its part, has not preserved the memory of Polish Jewry either. Antisemitism, widespread in pre-war Poland, did not disappear from Polish minds with the end of the Second World War and developed into new forms such as, for example, the identification of the communist regime as a 'Jewish anti-Polish plot'. At the same time, those resistant to antisemitism, perhaps suffering from the trauma of 5 The 'Blonski debate', 'Convent debate', 'Cross debate', and eventually the 'Jedwabne debate'. 6 Friedlander 1993, 59.

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witnessing such atrocities, repressed the memory of the Holocaust. Others who were sensitive to the past focused on the suffering of the Polish nation and were perhaps reluctant to accept that others suffered more. Eventually, the only available institutional alternative to the official memory was that offered by the Roman Catholic Church, which, due to its own history, relations with Judaism, and various political involvements, did not express any serious interest in maintaining the memory of the Polish Jews and their destiny. Polish public memory, which, as any other - according to John Bodnar - 'emerges from the intersection of official and vernacular cultural expressions',7 has, then, drawn a veil of silence over the history of Jewish-Polish interactions, the flourishing of Jewish life in Poland and its tragic end in the Holocaust. Correspondingly, until comparatively recently, there has been no well-developed framework of Polish collective memory, which would help large parts of society to remember the Jews' significance in Polish history, or to mourn them. Social settings and their chronologies, narratives and landscapes, which - according to Maurice Halbwachs8 - help us to organize the flow of past events into a structured and shared memory, have been predominantly Polish, politically controlled and rather mono- or duo-centric, thus enabling one to see the past only from one or two points of view, none of them including the Jewish perspective. If Jews were referenced at all in the public memory of previous eras, it would either be as part of a mythological narrative of Tolishness', in which Poland was presented as a noble land offering shelter for those persecuted in other places, a tolerant country without religious conflict, a country 'without stakes' to burn 'heretics',9 or it would be a part of an official, highly politicized and thus socially distrusted 'politics of memory'. The situation started to change under the relatively liberal regimes of the 1970s, and the consequent opening of Poland to ideas circulating in the 'Western world': a process which, among other things, confronted Poles with the problem of the Holocaust and with accusations of 'Polish antisemitism'. This coincided with a growth in the number of Jewish visitors to Poland, and, later on, with the activities of foundations which10 aimed to preserve the monumental heritage of Jewish life in Poland and to support the remaining Jewish communities. Moreover, Polish intellectuals developed an interest in previously erased chapters of Polish history, being assisted in this venture by Polish institutions in diaspora, and by those associated with the Church: for example, members of the Club of Catholic Intelligentsia contributed to the re-examination of the Church's attitude towards Judaism. This process sped up in the 1980s when the democratic, anticommunist opposition established its structures, and it included within its project the attempt to reclaim memory from the communist-controlled 7 Bodnar 1994, 75. 8 Halbwachs 1992. 9 Domariska 2000, 254. 10 As discussed elsewhere in this volume by Jolanta Ambrosewicz-Jacobs.

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agenda. Known as the attempt to 'fill in the blank spots' in the map of collective memory, this process contributed to the re-emergence of the previously neglected Polish-Jewish history. A number of official films and publications dealing with Poland's Jewish past appeared, as did clandestine literature on the subject. Jewish history and culture began to be studied at universities. Public intellectual debates and the international conflicts about the Carmelite Convent at Auschwitz raised awareness of problems within the wider population and helped the elites to develop their arguments and revise their standpoints. In 1989 Poland entered the post-communist period of her history with a clear knowledge, at least among the elites, that a part of Polish memory had been erased or manipulated and that the 'de-communization of memory' would necessarily include the attempt to reconstruct episodes in JewishPolish relations. The decade of the 1990s was marked by a further intensification of the 'revival' of Jewish memory, this time assisted in part by the political authorities. Michael Steinlauf11 has identified a significant number of cultural and educational initiatives, publications and conferences on Jewish-Polish relations, which took place during the early part of the decade. Among the most important of these developments were the changes in school curricula and special teacher training programmes in Holocaust Education. In addition, civic participation in a number of commemorative ceremonies helped to focus public opinion on the previously neglected Jewish aspects of Polish history, and Polish-Jewish relations received a substantial share of attention in the mass media. The process of change has extended to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where the Museum exhibition has been refurbished with the participation of Jewish institutions to emphasize the site's role as a symbol of the Holocaust and to indicate clearly that it was above all the site of the mass extermination of men, women and children who were sent to death because they were Jewish.12 Since the 1990s, Poles have interacted more frequently with the everbigger numbers of Jewish visitors to Poland; this includes, for example, meetings of Polish and Israeli high school students. At the same time, it has been possible to witness a revival of Jewish life in Poland, as a growing number of people either have discovered their Jewish roots or have decided to 'come out' and reassert a previously repressed or rejected Jewish identity. This process has been facilitated by the various Jewish organizations which have become visible not only in the context of the protection of the material remnants of Jewish culture in Poland, but also as supporters of religious, cultural and educational initiatives. Correspondingly, a number of Poles, acting out of genuine interest, curiosity, or from economic motives, have engaged in various initiatives, from opening a 'Jewish restaurant' to setting up a band playing 'Jewish music', to organizing a festival of 'Jewish culture', all of which have 11 Steinlauf 1997. 12 Weinbaum 2001.

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contributed to the phenomenon described by Ruth Gruber13 as Virtual Jewishness': a distinctive form of Jewish culture that is produced by and addressed to non-Jews. Now freed from the constraints of censorship, intellectual debate about Polish-Jewish relations during the Shoah continues, having peaked around the publication of Jan T. Gross's book Neighbours [S^siedzi] in 2000. In the resulting discussion of the crime committed by the Polish inhabitants of Jedwabne on their Jewish neighbours, the 'whole of Polish society was convulsed by an extraordinary self-examination'.14 The matter divides various sectors of Polish society, including the Church, but has nevertheless greatly contributed to the 'return of memory' of the time of the Holocaust.

B. Memory rejected? It might be expected that the continuation of 'memory work' in the postcommunist era will bring with it a growing acceptance of the realities of Polish-Jewish relations and of truths concerning the Holocaust in Poland. However, within the general population, this does not seem to be the case. If we compare the results of sociological surveys carried out in 1992 and in 2002, we see surprising results, which show a growing polarization of Polish attitudes towards Jews and a tendency to equate Polish and Jewish suffering during the Second World War. If in 1992 the attitude of some 17 per cent of the Polish population might be termed antisemitic,15 by 2002 this figure rises to some 27 per cent. Yet in the same period the number of Poles expressing views and attitudes opposed to antisemitism doubled from 8 to 16 per cent.16 In relation to Holocaust memory, respondents interviewed by Krzeminski's team were asked the question, 'Who suffered more in the years of the Second World War?' The results are presented in Table 1.

13 Gruber 2002. 14 Weinbaum 2002,132. 15 Antisemitism is understood in this research in its 'modern' sense, and as being illustrated by the conviction that Jews control finances, conspire to rule the world, and 'stick together' regardless of who they are and where they live. The figures given refer to people who strongly believe in all such elements of the antisemitic stereotype. The survey findings concerning the strength and permanence of antisemitic attitudes may be contested if we take into account the phenomenon of 'induced antisemitism', i.e. the possibility that the research procedure itself makes respondents focus on the issue being investigated, but the puzzling tendency that the research has discovered seems to be well grounded. 16 Krzeminski 2004a, 29.

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Table 1. Who suffered more in the years of the Second World War? (%). Source: Krzeminski 2004b, 120.

Jews Poles Both suffered in the same way Difficult to compare Difficult to say

1992

2002

46.1 6.2 32.3 12.4 3.0

38.3 10.2 46.9 3.3 1.3

The results presented here are indeed surprising. In 2002, after ten years of educational work, unrestricted debate and, more generally, substantial change within the social framework of Holocaust memory, the number of people who believe that Jews were the main victims of the Second World War has decreased, and most of the respondents tend to believe that Poles and Jews suffered in the same way. It is also striking that 10 per cent of those surveyed in 2002 (much more than ten years earlier) believed that Polish suffering in the Second World War exceeded that of the Jews. Such results cannot be attributed to sheer ignorance and lack of interest: the decreasing and, generally, low number of those who have found such comparison difficult or have not made up their minds indicates that the issue is not on the margins of the respondents' perception. It seems that although the period 1992-2002 has seen Poles exposed to the truth in the context of new, post-communist social frameworks of memory, this information about the Holocaust and about Jews has not been well integrated into their cognitive structures. It is possible to interpret both the growing polarization of Polish attitudes towards Jews and the lack of attention to the Holocaust in Polish collective memory as evidencing the persistence of strong antisemitic feelings in Poland or the existence of feelings of guilt in relation to Polish-Jewish relations during the war. The first interpretation has some merits. Contemporary memory is shaped not only by the social frameworks developed after 1989, but also by the parameters of the past, which bequeathed to the present both the open antisemitism of the prewar era and the less overt antisemitism of national communism in postwar Poland. However, it is based on an assumption that has been rejected by contemporary sociology of collective memory, sociology of knowledge, and theory of culture, namely that it is the past that determines the present, or, that what happens in the present shall be accounted for by past events. Contrary to this position, contemporary disciplines which address collective memory generally assume that it is in the present where we may locate the mechanisms that decide which elements of the past are selected, incorporated into the narratives and practices of remembrance, and thereby shared as elements of a group's imagined history. Explanations which invoke feelings of guilt - or, to use Saul

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Friedlander's17 expression, the 'trauma of the witness' - also presuppose that the past plays a determining role, and are in this sense incompatible with the sociology of collective remembrance originating in the work of Maurice Halbwachs. As Peter Novick18 has observed, for Freud memories are 'imposed' while for Halbwachs they are 'chosen'. Moreover, these accounts of Polish beliefs are based on numerous barely verifiable assumptions about attitudes towards Jews, perceptions of the Holocaust, and its social-psychological outcomes. As an alternative explanation to those invoking 'antisemitism' and 'trauma', I propose a model of three interpenetrating frameworks of interpretation, which refer to the peculiarity of the process of 'regaining' memory in Poland, to the specificity of post-communist memory, and to some of the characteristic features of memory in postmodern culture. This model is based on a different conceptualization of memory, which I understand as mutable rather than fixed, constructed rather than released, and situational rather than firmly rooted in the past.

C. Memory debated Polish memory, in which Jews and the Holocaust appear recently as objects of remembrance, has been shaped by a number of public debates that have dominated Poland's intellectual life since the late 1980s. The first of these, still boundaried by communist control of the media, was initiated by the screening of Claude Lanzman's Shoah on Polish television in 1985. Although the documentary was generally perceived by Polish audiences as 'tendentious', it nevertheless dealt the first blow to the Polish mythology of the Second World War and confronted the public with the issue of the Holocaust. Two years later, an essay published by Jan Bloñski in the Catholic weekly Tygodnik Powszechny19 stirred public opinion and engendered a debate about the guilt and responsibility of Poles as passive witnesses of the Holocaust, who did not express compassion and often seemed to be pleased with the Nazi persecutions of the Jews. The main issue debated in the years 1985-1993 was the controversy over the Carmelite convent at Auschwitz-Birkenau; the former camp continued to function as a site of conflict during the controversies regarding the organization of the 50th anniversary of its liberation (1995) and the presence of the so-called 'Papal cross' in the area formerly designed for the convent. Eventually, the publication of Jan T. Gross's book20 revealed to a broad audience that in 1941 the Polish inhabitants of the town Jedwabne murdered their Jewish neighbours. This opened up the most heated debate about Polish-Jewish relations in the time of the Holocaust. We may expect a new chapter in the discussion to be opened 17 18 19 20

Friedlander 1994. Novick 2001, 5. Bloñski 1987, Gross 2000.

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by the publication of the Polish translation of Jan Gross's new book,21 which is scheduled for 2007. The most striking feature of these debates has been a process which I would term 'the advancing of the threshold of shame'. Each round of the debate has brought about more severe accusations and revealed more facts with which it has been ever more difficult to come to terms. If the general impression after Lanzman's Shoah was that some sectors of Polish society - poor, uneducated and corrupted by the time of the war might indeed have shown lack of compassion for the Jewish tragedy, some of the views expressed in the 'Bloñski debate' suggested that such an attitude was far more widespread, and that it was not limited to a lack of sensitivity but included as well quite clear, although passive, support for the persecutions of Jews. Then, the 'Jedwabne debate' revealed that Poles, in certain circumstances (forced or condoned by the occupying German forces), might have been not only passive supporters of the persecutions but also active perpetrators. Gross's new book addresses the fact that, without need of the 'encouragement' of German troops, Poles persecuted Jews after the end of the war. The advancing of the threshold of shame has two contradictory consequences. On the one hand, it has made it easier for Poles to accept the revelations brought by each new phase of the debate. Any new piece of the truth is easier to swallow because of the preceding memory work, which has already called into question the positive self-image of Poles during the war. On the other hand, the gradual character of the process has also assisted in the development of defensive reactions and strategies. Some of those who were willing to revise their views at a certain stage in the process have subsequently proved reluctant to accept new challenges, treating them as an unfair continuation of demands and accusations. The rationale which underpins such defensive strategies could be characterized as: 'We did our job; what else do they want?' For the less engaged, the repeated re-turning to issues previously debated induces a sense of irritation that 'we need to go through that once again', so that the interest of the broader audience moves away from the debate. More generally, the defensive reaction reflects the tendency to conceive of history and memory in terms of an agonizing binary opposition: us and them. The Polish debates, deep and thorough as they were, have been incorporated into a dualistic conflict of memories; it has not proved possible to develop 'polycentric memory' in the sense advocated in Richard Sennet's reinterpretation of Halbwachs' theory. This kind of memory requires the groups involved to accept that none of them is at the centre of memory and that the memory process presupposes an interaction between different centres rather than the defence of the fortress of one's own memory. It is of particular importance in the case of memory work which deals with issues so painful that debating them resembles reopening wounds. This is something 'people cannot do by themselves' but it is something they have to do in order to remember well, which 'requires a social structure in which people can address 21 Gross 2006.

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others across the boundaries of difference'.22 Such a social structure has not fully emerged in the course of the Polish debates, resulting in a fragmented 'landscape of memory', which has in turn contributed to the polarization of Polish society. D. Post-communist memory ry

The collective memories of post-communist societies can be interpreted as a continuum, the opposite poles of which are the two 'ideal types', described by Richard Esbenshade23 as the 'Kundera paradigm' and the 'Konrad paradigm'. According to the first of these, post-communism has inherited a radical gap between the official, state-sponsored memory and that which it tried to erase, the authentic, unofficial memory of the nation. The latter resists external manipulation and becomes a depository of the truth, of real history as lived through by the real people. In contrast, the Konrad paradigm assumes that 'there is no pure, pristine memory beneath the state's manipulation, for its subjects are caught up in the process and themselves become guilty of mis-remembering; of manipulation of other's memory'.24 Thus, the collectively remembered past as evoked in the Kundera paradigm, which opposes the manipulative tendency of the official memory, is often mere myth which, moreover, can easily be instrumentalized to function as a weapon in the struggle against oppression, or to confirm that this struggle has been successful.25 Esbenshade rightly observes that after 1989, both the 'nations' and the 'states' of East-Central Europe have together operated within the Konrad paradigm in order to present the past in a way that could foster national unity and pride. This has led to the rejection of the most uncomfortable historical moments as not belonging to the 'real' history, to the 'true' national life. This process has particularly affected the memory of episodes during the Second World War, which have been repressed in both the official and vernacular discourses of the past.26 Moreover, it may be said that the Kundera paradigm has not ceased to exist but has mutated into a myth which attributes wrongdoings in the past to structures and influences external to the nation. Such a move additionally protects the collectively remembered past from revision: in this context, to revise memory would entail both a breaking of the informal, pragmatic consensus, and a subversion of the cherished myth of national innocence. Attempts to revise memory, however, remain a permanent aspect of the post-communist system, liberated as it is from mono-centric control. The post-communist landscape of memory is therefore a 22 23 24 25

Sennet 1998, 22. Esbenshade 1995. Esbenshade 1995, 78. An example of such instrumentalization of the Holocaust commemorations can be found in Steinlauf 1997, 128, although the conclusions drawn by the author are much more optimistic than the interpretation presented here. 26 Esbenshade 1995, 80.

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complicated, multi-centred space, in which critical attempts to reclaim memory from national myths and from communist as well as from contemporary silences, coexist with the mythologization of the past and a highly politicized conspiracy to expunge inconvenient memories. This decentred landscape has contributed to the atmosphere of instability and insecurity that is connected with social, political and economic transformation and increases the cultural trauma which has been the response of large sectors of post-communist Poland to the immense change in their lives. Piotr Sztompka has rightly observed that the traumatic experience of transformation involves the perception of the traumatizing events not only as threatening but also - in moral terms - as 'unjust' and 'improper'. In consequence, the general climate of anxiety and uncertainty coincides with, among others, a deficit of social trust, identity crisis and a 'pessimism concerning the future, matched with nostalgic images of the past'.27 In such a context, the efforts of the Polish intellectual elites to face the problem of the Holocaust and to incorporate Jewish memory into Polish collective memory have, in the eyes of many Poles, undermined the nostalgic image of the past, and enforced a critical rethinking of identity, rather than the affirmation of its mythologized forms, and as such, they are met with a distrust which deepens the cleavage separating the elites from the rest of society. Therefore, the rejection of Holocaust discourse by large sectors of post-communist society, ranging 'from the sheer emulation of negationism elsewhere in the world to regionally-specific forms of collective defence of the national "historic memory" and to the banal,... cynical attempts at the utilitarian exploitation of an immediate political context',28 can be interpreted as a part of the traumatic syndrome. It is particularly important that the memory of the Holocaust brings into question two crucial features of Polish national identity: the belief that (ethnic) Poles have been the main victims of history in general and of the Second World War in particular, and the belief in national history as the continuous unfolding of the virtues of the (ethnic) Polish nation, against all odds and plots. In the context of the identity crisis that has accompanied the post-communist transformation of Poland, the nation has to be reinvented, and this, as David McCrone points out, means 'to evoke a future imaginable throughout the past'.29 It goes without saying that if the future is to be anticipated with hope, the past must be constructed as a glorious one and thus the process of the post-communist recovery of memory often means 'rather the defence of a particular selection from among ... facts, one that assures its protagonists of maintaining the roles of hero or victim when faced with any other selection that might assign them a less glorious role'.30 Memory as the convenient selection that serves to establish the continuity of past, present and future and works out the essence of 27 28 29 30

Sztompka 2000, 284. Shafir 2004,195. McCrone 1998, 52. Todorov 2001, 21.

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nationhood as unfolding in time, often focuses on the traumas of the past to reassure the pattern of survival which gives hope in overcoming the trauma of the present. This involves the 'construction of a narrative community with the dead' and the pathos of such memory work may sometime legitimate 'expiatory violence'.31 It seems that the memory of the Holocaust has been treated by some sectors of Polish society, mostly those affected by the trauma of transformation, as interfering with Polish memory as the celebration of nationhood (for it has questioned both the heroism of the Poles and their self-proclaimed status as the main victims); this has largely prevented it from being included in Poland's memory, in spite of noble efforts to do so, and has divided public opinion. E. The postmodern context As far as memory is concerned, postmodern culture constitutes an ambiguous entity. On the one hand the postmodern era is often described as a post-historical period, in which history does not matter the way it did in the past. Nevertheless, contemporary 'amnesiac societies' are believed to develop a 'passion for memory', manifested in the growing popularity of commemorative activities and the sites with which they are associated, and in the proliferation of literature that evokes the past.32 It seems that memory in contemporary societies is a Hegelian 'owl of Minerva': the representation of the past that has been made visible to us because the universe it once represented has crumbled. The contemporary obsession with memory is, therefore, possible only because memory has been extracted from its 'natural environment', in which context it was simply a taken-for-granted and invisible factor connecting past and present into a meaningful unit which society then tended to project into the future. The linear model of time that characterized modernity and in which memory performed such a substantial role has been largely replaced in contemporary culture by non-linearity, fragmentation and contingency: this has changed our sense of both history and identity.33 The concept of identity as something 'to be fixed', which unfolds in time, either as a product of historical determinism or as a conscious design to be implemented in the future, has been replaced by the concept of identity as a choice made in the context of a commercialized culture of consumption. Being selective and contingent, individual and group identity is fluid, unstable, fragile, and valid only until further notice.34 As Bauman observes, time in postmodern culture is fragmented 'into episodes, each one cut from its past and from its future, each one selfenclosed and self-contained'.35 Contemporary identities are constructed 31 32 33 34 35

Outhwaite and Ray 2005, 196. Misztal 2004, 67. Delanty 1999, 70-1. Bauman 1996, 24; Kellner 1992, 143. Bauman 1996, 25.

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within a 'fragmented, disjoined, and discontinuous mode of experience' that is a 'fundamental characteristic of post-modern culture'.36 This may help to explain why Saul Friedlander described the presence of the past, and thus memory, as 'apparently irrelevant' for contemporary societies. It does not, however, explain why, according to the same author, the past is so pervasive that we live amidst its proliferating representations.37 First, it must be noted that the decomposition of the 'grand narratives' of modernity, which organized collective memory into a number of dominant discourses, has released a plurality of previously repressed small-scale, group-based 'small memories' that constitute the contemporary cultural landscape.38 Second, these memories are very visible because they function in the postmodern condition, characterized by the 'release of culture from society'39 and therefore their existence in the mediatized sphere of cultural representations has been open to the general public, although it is rather loosely connected with the social existence of their titular 'bearers'. Third, contemporary memories have a performative character, they are dramatized through, and embedded in, commemorative practices, associated with and symbolically condensed in various 'sites of memory' (museums, monuments, thematic parks, or cultural institutions).40 Fourth, the representations of memories are as fluid and unstable as the identities with which they are associated and the frequent transformations they undergo help to focus attention on their contents. Fifth, those changes occur often as a result of the interaction of various representations of memory which involves both a 'struggle or negotiation between competing narratives' and a 'constant tension between creating, preserving and destroying memories'.41 Ultimately, we may add, the old frameworks and master narratives of memory have not disappeared without a trace. In many sectors of contemporary societies they still strive to fight back and maintain their control. In many others, the old ideologies of modernity have been, to use Delanty's expression, recombined by new social agente and transformed into the 'politics of identity'.42 How can we then position Holocaust memory within such postmodern cultural contexte? It seems that Holocaust remembrance shares the fate of other forms of memory in our age: it is omnipresent but its relevance may be called into question. For Eva Hoffman, the memory of the Holocaust is precisely a 'hypermemory' in the postmodern sense of hyperreality, something that makes it in fact a 'secondary amnesia' - the 'kind of amnesia in which the Shoah is in danger not so much of vanishing into forgetfulness as expanding into an increasingly empty referent, a symbol of historical horror, an allegory of the Real, the familiar 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

Kellner 1992,144. Friedlander 1993, 59. Misztal 2004, 74. Delanty 1999, 56. Cannertón 1989, 4-5; Misztal 2003,127-30; Nora 1996. Misztal 2003,127. Delanty 1999, 56-7.

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catastrophe and a stand-in for authenticity and for history'.43 The reality of the Holocaust, highly mediatized and dramatized through commemorative activities, may seem to the unprepared eye of a Polish spectator as something 'out there'. It exists in the realm of the mass media or 'big polities', and may in passing be a source of concern, but it does not persist long enough to clash with the historical narratives more intimately familiar to its audience. This kind of 'inflation of rhetoric', to quote Hoffman44 again, may well be one of the factors preventing us from knowing what it actually is to remember from the message left by the experience of the Holocaust. This worries authors, who - like James Young - claim that, It is not enough to ask whether or not our memorials remember the Holocaust, or even how they remember it. We should also ask to what ends we have remembered. That is, how do we respond to the current moment in light of our remembered past? This is to recognize that the shape of memory cannot be divorced from the actions taken in its behalf, and that memory without consequences contains the seeds of its own destruction. For were we passively to remark only the contours of these memorials, were we to leave unexplored their genesis, and remain unchanged by the recollective act, it could be said that we have not remembered at all.45 It seems that despite the proliferation of media representations and memorial sites, we are rather far from a thorough understanding of the Holocaust's role in culture and history. On the other hand, there are regular calls for the inclusion of memory of the Holocaust in a conscious project of self-transformation. At a 1995 conference on Jewish and Polish memory held in Krakow, Diana Pinto made an emotional appeal for Auschwitz to acquire a new, more European meaning in the context of rising intolerance and xenophobia. The New Poland should make this place the centre of reflection on a heterogeneous, pluralist and multicultural Europe, of which Jews were once the incarnation. The Europe of tolerance would, Pinto argued, re-emerge around this symbol rather than in connection with commentaries on the paragraphs of the Maastricht Treaty.46 Nine years later, Andrea Tyndall in her essay published in a collection of texts on the representations of Shoah, has expressed the more modest belief that the European Union, facing difficulties in obtaining political consensus, will turn to the past as an 'effective symbol of union' which could create the 'Citizens of Europe'. She concluded with a question: 'Might the Holocaust serve to connect European values with other Western nations' value systems in the future?'47 It seems that in the decade separating Pinto and Tyndall, the Shoah has not become a 43 44 45 46 47

Hoffman 2004, 177. Hoffman 2004, 174. Young 1994a, 230-1. Pinto 1996,176. Tyndall 2004, 121.

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benchmark for the construction, perception and representation of the imagined European community. This has definitely been the case in the countries of the former communist block, even those which eventually managed to join the EU, or which will soon do so. The Holocaust (either as an event or as a frame for historical perception) has not found its way into the collective memories of East Europeans, in spite of the role that historiography 48 has played in numerous events and debates of the postcommunist era. But historiography is not in itself an innocent factor in relation to the processes that have turned the memory of the Holocaust into something detached from contemporary experiences. According to Dan Stone, the dominant patterns of historical representation are ambivalent: their attempts to keep memory alive often make this memory distorted and largely irrelevant for contemporary demands.49 What replaces relevance and an appropriate 'lesson of the Holocaust' for the contemporary age is thus either the repression of its real meaning (which actually contributes to the reproduction of the conditions in which the Holocaust was made possible), or various attempts to sacralize the Holocaust.50 The sacralization of the Holocaust means its removal from the realm of history and, through the building of a link between 'the sacred' and various collective traumas and grievances, opens up the way for the inclusion of Holocaust discourse in the politics of identity.51 F. Conclusions: the role of religion In order to properly grasp the status of Holocaust memory in contemporary Polish society we must re-evaluate our ordering of the various frameworks of interpretation described above. The postmodern cultural context provides the overarching context for the debate, and functions as a source of images in which the Holocaust may be represented. In turn, these images operate in the post-communist context of coming to terms with often traumatic and repressed memories. Finally, the results of the post-communist 'search for memory' inform the narrower field in which Polish-Jewish history is debated. The postmodern context makes Holocaust discourse, newly 'discovered' by Poles after the period of communist silence and distortion, an ambiguous entity. Its proliferating presence arrests attention, especially since the Poles have previously had rather limited access to the Holocaust debate. But on the other hand, this attention is not long-lasting and does not inculcate the kind of attitude that has the potential to engender a larger-scale rethinking and reshaping of thoughts and deeds. This is so first of all because the message of the Holocaust is largely delivered in a package, as part and parcel of the multifarious patchwork of contemporary mass media culture. The 48 49 50 51

Orla-Bukowska 2004. Stone 2003,135-6. Stone 2003, 265. Novick 2001.

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performative nature of Holocaust memory, and its localization in particular sites of remembrance, help occasionally to focus public attention on the events that are dramatized through commemorative practices - but they also allow that attention to wane when the ceremony is over. The penetration of public Holocaust discourse into the particular memories of non-Jewish groups which compete for the status of Victims' or 'heroes' may increase the sense of insecurity and exclusion, may lead to conflicts, and eventually may cause reservations insofar as the process itself becomes politicized. The contemporary sacralization of the Holocaust, which fits so well the 'desire for enchantment in a disenchanted age',52 may help to establish a link between traumas of the past, identity and contemporary culture, but it is met with distrust by those for whom more traditional religious attitudes are still important (a large sector of Polish society), as well as by those who prefer to face history without recourse to a religious frame of reference. Moreover, the 'desire for enchantment' locates Holocaust discourse in the same field as consumption or popular culture, contributing to its banalization and making an interest in the past a contingent and instrumental phenomenon. In the post-communist context, the most important problems relate to the creation and sustenance of structures in which memories can be expressed, communicated and debated. The trauma of transformation, the cognitive shock and permanent re-examination of the past, and the exposure to a plurality of histories, do not help in establishing such structures. Instead, there is often a call for 'religion', which serves as exit from history into the realm of myth where the past becomes solid and offers comforts that serious debate undermines. It is precisely because of the 'incantations of closed quasi-sacred language' that the 'communicative communities able to subject identities and histories to reflexive examination' cannot be established.53 This leads to a rejection of the necessarily painful attempts to work through the past; critical memory is subsumed within wide-ranging scenarios about the 'enemies of Polishness' and thereby safely dismissed. This type of conflict dominates contemporary Poland but it should be noted that the Roman Catholic Church, often wrongly interpreted as monolithic, is as torn regarding this issue as is society at large. The Church is distinctive, however, insofar as it draws upon religious vocabulary to build its argument. When we turn to the specific debates regarding Polish-Jewish issues, we may observe that they have taken the form of a religious experience and fit into a scheme that might be described as confession-penitence. This structural quality, particularly visible in the case of the Jedwabne debate, results in the expectation of a clear-cut division: before the confession one (Polish society) is a sinner, and after the propitiatory act one may expect to be redeemed. The advancing threshold of shame that characterizes Polish-Jewish debates follows, however, a different logic, according to which nothing is fixed and resolved forever, new facts may 52 Delanty 1999, 57. 53 Outhwaite and Ray 2005, 196.

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appear, and a new need may emerge to come back and re-examine those memories with which we allegedly have come to terms. In practice, memory work has assumed the form of an open, unfinished process, while the participants, and even more the audience, have expected resolution. Therefore, we may conclude, the rejection of the Holocaust and the growing polarization of Polish society regarding the issue of antisemitism may be interpreted as the consequence of three interacting sets of factors: the ambiguous status of Holocaust memory in contemporary culture, which involves attempts to sacralize the experience of the Holocaust; the 'post-communist condition' of insecurity, which lacks an adequate communicative public sphere in which history may be debated and often resorts to a religiously inspired dissolution of history into myth; and the way in which Polish-Jewish memories are debated in Poland, with its advancing 'threshold of shame' that contradicts quasireligious expectations of closure and redemption.

Memory and Civic Education: Holocaust and Coming to Terms with National History Jolanta Ambrosewicz-Jacobs

The memories which lie within us are not carved in stone; not only do they tend to become erased as the years go by, but often they change, or even grow, by incorporating extraneous features. [...] Some mechanisms are known which falsify memory under particular condition: traumas, not only cerebral ones; interference from other 'competitive' memories, abnormal conditions of consciousness, repressions, blockages.1

A. Introduction The fundamental function of social memory is the transmission of the crucial substance related to a group's history and culture, the communication of the essence of its collective identity.2 In this process the entanglement of religion could be best described with the words from the 1994 UNESCO Declaration of Barcelona on Peace, which states that: 'Cultures give religions their language, and religions give cultures their ultimate signification.'3 This chapter will look at the complex and often painful process of incorporating the topic of the Holocaust within both national narratives and particular 'communities of memory' in post-1989 Poland.4 First, the category of 'memory' will be briefly explored, both in terms of its character as an interpretative, meaning-making process framed by specific social groups (families, ethnic groups, and nations, as suggested by Maurice Halbwachs) and in terms of its relation to history, as seen in the work of Charles S. Maier, Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Pierre Nora, Barbara Szacka, Zygmunt Bauman, Dominik LaCapra, Alan Milchman, Alan Rosenberg and others. For Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, personal memory is the first clue, the 'first draft' of history. Similarly, national memory is the compilation of 1 2 3 4

Levi 1989, 23. Stachowski 2002, 5. Diene 2004, 204. Fragments of this paper were presented during the conference Teaching the Holocaust to Future Generations' at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem on 26-29 June 2006.

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the historical narratives transmitted through family stories, curricula and public rituals. Until 1989, with the exception of some rare but meaningful elite initiatives, memory of the Holocaust in Poland was circumscribed by the nation's official 'oblivion'. This was easily achieved, because personal and familial memory were suppressed, denied, distorted and falsified. Widespread silence was partly the effect of communist ideology, partly the result of the painful memory of helplessness experienced by many Poles in the face of mass murder, and partly a consequence of the shame of witnessing the often barbarous behaviour of one's own people. Memories of the Holocaust were buried in the unconscious of the witnesses; moreover, it was only many years later that many survivors felt able to speak of their experiences. Second, this chapter will discuss empirical investigations of the attitudes of young Poles toward the Holocaust. These reveal several conflicts around the memory of the Holocaust, including: the tension between, on the one hand, understanding the need to teach about the Holocaust and, on the other hand, indifference toward anti-Jewish graffiti; varying perceptions of the role and behaviour of Poles in relation to Jews; and competing images of Polish and Jewish suffering during the Second World War. I suggest that these conflicts reflect gaps in the Polish education system and are indicative of an urgent need to come to terms with a difficult past. Despite - or perhaps because of - the conflict surrounding Holocaust memory, there has in recent years been an avalanche of civic initiatives related to the history and culture of Polish Jews and to the memorialization of the Holocaust in post-Jedwabne Poland. The process began with publications about Jewish culture at the end of the 1980s, and continued with the (ongoing) effort to restore monuments, and renovate synagogues and destroyed cemeteries. The number of current initiatives indicate that the efforts of civic institutions and individuals to teach about the Holocaust have intensified since the 1990s, but such efforts still mark the beginning of the task. Arguably, these developments illustrate the attempt of Polish society in general to empathize with another community of memory and to incorporate the memory of the Holocaust into the mainstream national collective memory as a component of collective identity. The question of whether such initiatives also exorcise feelings of collective responsibility, or even guilt, or whether they are expressions of mourning, would require separate, in-depth studies. B. Memory 5

Maurice Halbwachs suggested that memory of the past is an interpretive, meaning-making process framed by specific social groups - families, ethnic groups and nations. He believed that membership of social groups encourages people to acquire and recall memory in particular ways, and 5 Halbwachs 1992.

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to participate in 'communities of memories'. Saul Friedlander6 and Dominick LaCapra7 have made pioneering contributions to our understanding of Holocaust memory. Dominick LaCapra emphasized that no single narrative of the Holocaust can emerge, and that there must be a multitude of perspectives and approaches, in order to prevent any rigid meaning from developing. But an emphasis on diverse approaches runs the risk of relativization. Pierre Vidal-Naquet8 and Pierre Nora9 separate subjective memory from the objective history underlying it. There can be tensions or even opposition between them. According to Barbara Szacka10 history is different; it is not simply a better form of social memory, a condition for community participation. Finally, some writers stress that memory is not only a descriptive category, but also a moral project.11 For Alan Milchman and Alan Rosenberg,12 the 'community of memory' is not monolithic but pluralistic. It necessarily allows space for difference, especially when we do not have direct access to the past, as in the case of the Holocaust. According to Charles S. Maier,13 modern historical memory cannot be universal because 'memory does not come in a social or political vacuum', and communities of memory cannot empathize with the members of other communities of memory. However, the evidence from civic education projects in Poland offers a challenge to this claim. 'The struggle between memory and identity, for example, including national identity, does not let up with time as Young points out, Polish national memory and Jewish memory haunt many of the same places.'14 But who, aside from a few 'guardians', was able to preserve Jewish memory in Poland after 1945? Since 1989, Auschwitz has regularly functioned as a battleground of competing memories, in which religion plays a significant role. Most notable is the conflict around the Convent and crosses, in which the positions of the parties involved were far from sharing Doudou Diene's observation 'that identity is texture and movement'.15

C Divergent trajectories16 of Polish and Jewish memories Post-war, Polish and Jewish collective memories created largely divergent images of mutual relations during the Second World War. In Jewish eyes the Poles were indifferent, taking advantage of Jews, often pleased with the Jews' fate, and in some cases even actively helping the Nazis. 6 Friedlander 1990; 1991; 1992: 1993. 7 LaCapra 1988; 1994. 8 Vidal-Naquet 1992, 23. 9 Nora 1989, 9. 10 Szacka 1985; 1991, 202. 11 Bilewicz et al 2004,144. 12 Milchman and Rosenberg 2003,118. 13 Maier 1993,136; 2001, 32. 14 Hartman 1994a, 7. 15 Diene 2004, 207. 16 Term used by Stola 2000, 95.

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Yet since 1950, following the decision of a Communist Party commission, Jewish suffering in Auschwitz was downplayed. In 1967 the former camp was named as the Memorial of Martyrology and Fight of the Polish Nation. Between 1970 and 1978 the Jewish pavilion on the site was closed; it reopened only before the visit of US President Jimmy Carter. The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising was depicted as the work of the Polish underground, and during anniversaries of the Uprising the fight for the freedom of the Polish nation was emphasized.17 Ignorance about the Jewish experience in post-war Poland was in part the legacy of communist indoctrination, which reinforced long-held prejudices. The common Polish-Jewish heritage was a neglected or suppressed topic in the national curriculum. The Catholic Church in Poland failed to incorporate knowledge about Jews into religious education, and postVatican II teachings of the Church were not emphasized in the parishes. The general indifference of Poles toward the destruction of Polish Jewry was not mentioned in any school textbooks before 1993. The involvement of some Poles in the murder of Jews was a taboo subject. Using Todorov's18 language we could say that history was rewritten when the management team changed. After 1989, the different attitudes of Poles toward the Holocaust (often a neglected topic before the fall of communism) were reconsidered. The first milestone in addressing Polish indifference toward the suffering of Jews was Jan Bloñski's famous article 'Poor Poles are looking at the ghetto ...' published in 1987. Two books by Jan Gross helped to break the general silence surrounding the attitudes of Poles during the Holocaust and also exposed the myth of the widely shared compassion of Poles toward Jews. Published in 1998, Upiorna dekada. Trzy eseje o stereotypach na temat Zydów, Polaków, Niemców i komunistów 1939-194819 included quotations from the wartime journal of Zygmunt Klukowski, director of the hospital in Szczebrzeszyn in the Zamosc region, in which he noted the active and brutal involvement of some Poles in pursuing Jews. The readership of this book was limited, but Sçsiedzi™ raised a long and public debate, which started in the spring of 2000 in quality newspapers and monthlies such as Rzeczpospolita, Znak and Gazeta Wyborcza, and was followed in the summer by the regional newspapers Gazeta Pomorska, Kurier Poranny and Gazeta Wspóczesna. Meanwhile, the right-wing ultra-Catholic papers Nasza Polska and Nasz Dziennik rejected Sqsiedzi's challenge to the traditional image of Poles as victims, rather than perpetrators of wartime atrocity. The third book by Jan Gross, Fear: Anti-semitism in Poland after Auschwitz;11 addresses the most taboo topic - Kielce and other pogroms - and judging by the reviews of the English edition, it will further polarize public opinion in Poland. 17 Zaremba 2001. 18 Todorov 1996, 7. 19 Ghastly Decade: Three Essays on Stereotypes of Jews, Poles, Germans and Communists, 19391948. 20 Neighbours, 2000. 21 The Polish edition is in press.

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Monuments are crucial elements of collective memory construction, even those built or reconstructed recently. They can, however, propagate a distorted vision of history, by omitting information. The inscription on the monument in Jedwabne, for example, does not say that it was the non-Jewish neighbours (some of whom still hold the keys to their homes) who killed the town's Jews. This absence, says Halina Bortnowska,22 is shameful. The current text is the result of a compromise necessary to allow for the creation of the monument at all, but it nevertheless falsifies our history, memory and identity. D. Surveyed attitudes of young Poles 'Don't be a Jew. Lend me a pen/ said my ten-year-old son's best friend to him some years ago. He said that in primary school, in one of Poland's major cities, Krakow. If he knew that my son had a Jewish father, would it have made a difference? Probably not, because the word 'Jew', used so commonly and thoughtlessly in Poland, is not connected with real people. Zygmunt Bauman23 likens the word 'Jew' to an empty vehicle which can be loaded in different ways depending on the particular need. Used by a Polish boy, it evoked the long-held stereotype of the 'selfish' Jew. He, like almost 90 per cent of Poles, had never met a Jew, but 'knows' what to attribute to one. He sees stars of David drawn on the posters of political candidates before elections, and he sees graffiti referring to Jews. He probably thinks that 'Jew' means 'enemy'. This language is widespread and used unconsciously. My friend's neighbour, an old lady in Warsaw who risked her life to shelter Jews during the Second World War, uses the term 'Zydki' ('little Jews') to refer to Jewish people. My friend could not understand how somebody who had acted with extraordinary courage and was ready to sacrifice her life for another human being could use this kind of problematic language. These two anecdotal examples reflect complex attitudes. While Poles fantasize about Jewish influence on the government, they eat 'Jewish style' carp for supper on Christmas Eve - it is a Polish 'national dish' and many young Poles dance to Klezmer music in Krakow during the annual Jewish Culture Festival. Poland is a country of contradictory myths. An empirical study of the attitudes of Polish teenagers just ten years after the fall of communism gives evidence of the years of past suppression, and suggests that remnants of the conflict of memory persist, as demonstrated by inconsistent attitudes toward the Holocaust and related topics.24 Findings attest to a lack of coherence between 22 Bortnowska 2004. 23 Bauman 1992. 24 The study initiated and conducted by the author in 1998 and 2000 was sponsored by the Open Society Institute, Research Support Scheme (grant RSS 122/98) and the Jagiellonian University (grants CRBW/99, CRBW/00 and CRBW/01). Part of this study was carried out within the framework of the History and Reconciliation Project at the Carnegie Council for Ethics and International Affairs, New York, in 2000. Survey

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answers related to the Holocaust (attributable to a lack of knowledge about the topic), emotions related to patriotism, and the students' attachment to an image of the special role of Poles in history. The topic of the Holocaust clearly elicits conflicted feelings and triggers defence mechanisms. This national survey shows that young Poles do not acknowledge the uniqueness of the Holocaust. One possible explanation for this is that they have a sense that Polish suffering during the Second World War might not be sufficiently acknowledged if Jewish suffering were highlighted. Admitting that the Jews suffered more might mean that the Poles suffered less. Such an attitude accounts for the persistent division between the Polish and Jewish memories of the Second World War and the Holocaust. A key aspect of Polish identity, rooted in a romantic messianic vision associated with some of its greatest writers, is the sense that the nation has suffered uniquely, experiencing conquest, partitions, crushed rebellions, wars and communism. Poland is conceived as being 'the chosen nation' or 'the Christ of the nations'. Denial of the fact that during the Holocaust only Jews and Gypsies were condemned to death on the basis of their identity may have something to do with the strength of this sense of unique suffering in the national consciousness. Jewish suffering remains taboo for many of the young respondents. This particular experience is problematic for collective memory, and as it is not explored or explained well in school, it has become one of the main obstacles in teaching about the Holocaust in Poland. The survey analysis indicates that Polish adolescents' views reflect the existence of a 'competition in suffering' between Poles and Jews. This trend was identified by Jasinska-Kania25 in her study of Polish attitudes towards other nations and re-emerged in the findings of empirical research work conducted by a team of Warsaw researchers led by Ireneusz Krzemiñski.26 Aside from the emergence of competing victimhoods, what are the causes of indifference and/or the denial of the Jewish fate during the war? In a 1945 essay Kazimierz Wyka27 wrote about Polish acquisition of Jewish property, noting that, From under the sword of the German butcher perpetrating a crime unprecedented in history, the little Polish shopkeeper snuck the keys to his Jewish competitor's cashbox, and believed that he had acted morally. To the Germans went the guilt and the crime; to us the keys and the cashbox ... that Germans liquidated the Jews rests on the Germans' conscience. The reaction to these methods rests nevertheless on our conscience. The gold filling torn out of a corpse's

data were collected by the Institute for Market and Public Opinion Research of Krakow (CEM). Earlier, the 1997 research was financed by a grant from the Rabbi Marc Tanenbaum Foundation for the Advancement of InterreHgious Understanding, New York. Ambrosewicz-Jacobs 2003. 25 Jasinska-Kania 1992. 26 Krzemiñski 1996; 2001. 27 Wyka 1984,157.

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mouth will always bleed, even if no one remembers its national origin.28 Steinlauf reminded that, 'While the Germans, certainly, took the lion's share of factories, warehouses, luxury residences, fancy furniture, and clothing, the leftovers went to Poles'.29 According to the surveys of teenage attitudes, the most controversial topic is that of Jewish/non-Jewish relations during the Holocaust. When asked 'Do you think that the Poles helped the Jews during the war?' (a multiple choice question with one 'open' answer), almost half of the students indicated answer 'yes, as much as they could' and more than 40 per cent indicated that it was 'hard to say'. Less than 10 per cent of respondents felt that 'they could have done more', although this rose to 28.8 per cent of those who were students in a pilot class taught by the co-author of the first Polish textbook and curriculum on the Holocaust, Robert Szuchta. A similar polarization of attitudes emerges in responses to the question, 'Do you think the Poles could have saved more Jews during the war, or not?' A great number of students were uncertain or chose not to respond. These emotionally loaded questions are indeed very hard to answer - but they should be raised in schools, not just in surveys, because they tackle problems essential to the processes of historical truth, reconciliation, moral education and civic responsibility. Other studies suggest that Polish society is characterized by rather closed attitudes toward religious minorities and is poorly prepared for contact with people of different cultures.30 Research carried out in six primary schools in Krakow in June 1996, followed by two interviews with priests teaching religion classes, one in June 1996 and the other in December 1997, indicates that the religiosity of young Poles from Krakow correlates positively with attitudes toward Jews.31 Hence, religious instructors may have a role in modelling positive attitudes, or intolerance, towards the Other. Since in Poland there is a strong historical link between national identity and the dominant religion, Catholicism, it is desirable for schools to establish educational programmes concerning other ethnic groups and religious minorities, and to offer training in openness towards those who are not Catholic Poles. Just as the Jewish roots of Christianity are not broadly known in Poland so the topic of the Holocaust, and of moral choices then and now, remains largely untouched in Polish schools. Tackling this subject in religious seminaries would equip priests to handle it better in the school classroom.

28 29 30 31

Steinlauf 1997, 59. Steinlauf 1997, 31. Nowicka 1995; Nowicka and Nawrocki 1996. Ambrosewicz-Jacobs and Mirski 1999.

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E. The past and how it is remembered Repressed group memory, like repressed individual memory, involves a rejection of forgotten images that are on the verge of being recalled.32 This rejection may be a defence mechanism, often expressed as a lack of knowledge of what was happening behind the ghetto walls: 'I/we saw nothing/ Many Poles did witness the Holocaust, however, and many Poles saw shmalcovniks (those who denounced Jews out of greed or hatred) handing Jews over to German soldiers in occupied Poland, although in this context we should also remember that around 200,000 Poles were involved in sheltering Jews, and 960 were executed for doing this. As Zygmunt Bauman33 reminds us: 'These [witnesses and bystanders] have been left with trauma of helplessness, cowardice or complicity to crime - with guilt and shame, which they needed to atone for, or shout down, or argue out of existence/ A January 2004 survey, 'Speaking about the forgotten7, indicates34 that 51 per cent of respondents feel a need to talk further about the 'suffering which Poles caused to others during the Second World War and afterwards7 (39 per cent were against this conversation, and 10 per cent expressed no opinion). More respondents, however, are ready to talk about their 'own7 suffering. Focusing on the memory of one's own suffering may indicate the presence of defence mechanisms built on the traces of ancestral traumas. The challenge to Poland after years of silence is to reconstruct historical memory, not in isolation but as the shared and often painful Polish-Jewish memory - to acknowledge that the destruction of 10 per cent of Poland's citizens, Poles of Jewish origin, is an integral part of the national past. This process was finally activated in Poland in the 1990s.

F. Education about the Holocaust since 1989 When we look at educational initiatives in Poland after 1989, we should ask whether the initiatives are reconstructing or constructing the memory of the Holocaust. After the fall of communism, crucial unanswered questions remain: What is the place of the Holocaust in the education of Polish youth? How is it taught? What kinds of difficulties do teachers face, and how do they overcome them? It is not always easy to distinguish formal education initiatives from informal ones, as at times different social actors undertake common projects and manage to cooperate successfully. It is also difficult to categorize such activities as, for example, a visit to a memorial site by a group of schoolchildren, which is ideally anticipated and followed up by classroom-based learning. The examples discussed below illustrate how governmental and academic institutions cooperate with non-governmental organizations (NGOs) in contemporary Poland in order to 32 Elias 1996, 514. 33 Bauman 1993, 23. 34 Bortnowska 2004.

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preserve the memory of the past, and develop civic responsibility for the present and the future. Moreover, some of these initiatives today include international partners. Visits to Auschwitz are a powerful experience for many young people, affecting their moral choices in the future. To better fulfil the task of conveying the truth about Auschwitz to the next generation, the International Centre for Education about Auschwitz and the Holocaust was established on 13 May 2005. It focuses on three main goals. The first is to address historical memory by teaching facts; the second is to address historical awareness by developing the competence to evaluate the causes and consequences of actions; and the third is to foster civic responsibility by promoting positive attitudes and developing a sense of active citizenship. Since 1998 the Museum and the Pedagogical University of Krakow have been organizing postgraduate studies in Totalitarianism - Nazism - Holocaust' as a response to the clear need to raise awareness of developments in Holocaust education among teachers. The International Youth Meeting Centre, founded in 1986 and located just outside the former camp, brings together young people from German and Polish schools, encouraging them to draw lessons from the events that took place in Auschwitz and build a better future. In addition to presenting historical material, the project informs young people about current threats to democracy and human rights. One further ongoing international project, initiated by the University of Warsaw's School of Journalism students, is called Europe According to Auschwitz. It aims to prepare a publication titled The Death Camp Chronicle/Reportage, focusing on important events from the camp's history. Due to the efforts of the Israeli Embassy in Warsaw, the Polish government, NGOs, and educators from both Poland and Israel, Polish and Israeli youth have been given opportunities to exchange views and discuss history. One outcome of such meetings, the 'Difficult Questions' project of the Forum of Dialogue among Nations, is rooted in real questions asked by young people, which were then addressed in book form by an international group of prominent scholars. The Jewish Historical Institute in Warsaw, the oldest academic institution focusing on research, publication and education about the Holocaust in Poland, organizes conferences, summer programmes and seminars for teachers. Among its various strategies for the promotion of education about the Holocaust are competitions for MA and Ph.D. theses on Jewish topics, and similar contests for high school students, focusing on Jewish history and culture. The Institute co-organizes these, and many educational exhibitions presenting the cultural heritage of Polish Jewry and confronting negative stereotypes, with the Shalom Foundation under the auspices of the Ministry of Education. There are today, of course, a great number of Polish NGOs concerned with the structure and character of Polish education, and many of these conduct numerous projects in the areas of civic education, education for tolerance, and multicultural/intercultural education. In these contexts Holocaust education forms part of the larger project of education for civic values and democracy. Forum Jews - Poles - Christians at the gateway/

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portal site www.tolerancja.pl/35 is one such valuable educational initiative. The Holocaust is one of the topics it embraces and the site carries news (of such events as the anniversaries of the liquidation of the Krakow ghetto, or the March of Remembrance), press and book reviews, interviews, documents, essays and reflections on study trips to Auschwitz among other documents. The City Gate - Theatre NN Centre, founded in 1990, is a local government institute in Lublin, linking education and the preservation of cultural heritage. Numerous projects foster the memory that before the war a third of the inhabitants of Lublin were Jews, almost all of whom perished in the Belzec camp. In one initiative, Polish schoolchildren mailed 500 letters to Henio Zytomirski, a ten-year-old Polish-Jewish boy murdered at Majdanek in 1942. In due course, the children's letters were returned to them, stamped 'no such address', or 'addressee unknown', and stimulating awareness and discussion within families about the absence of Lublin's Jewish population. The local or regional place in the national story is similarly stressed in the 'Traces of the Past' project created by the Polish Centre for Citizenship Education, the Polish-German Centre in Krakow and the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam. This teacher-training programme stresses teaching about local history and its influence on the present time, and considers how one may learn from history to prevent racism and xenophobia. Students participating in the project explore their own town and surroundings in order to discover old cemeteries, destroyed memorials and other traces of the past. In cooperation with local governments and local cultural institutions, they then dedicate themselves to taking care of these sites and learning about their history. Alongside such practical endeavours, exhibitions are vital components of the process of reconstructing collective memory. For the last ten years the exhibition The Jews in Poland: Ours or Strangers? has been travelling around Poland. More recently, the exhibition Traces of Memory - A Photographic Exhibition in Tribute to the Jews of Galicia opened in 2004 in the Galicia Museum in Krakow, which occupies a former Jewish-owned factory. Traces is the result of more than ten years of cooperation between the anthropologist Jonathan Webber and photographer Chris Schwarz, who undertook the task of documenting the remnants of Jewish culture and civilization in Galicia. Many other such initiatives are in development for the future. The Museum of the History of Polish Jews, a modern multimedia centre, will show stories, biographies and events in ways that allow contemporary visitors to feel a sense of emotional connection with individuals in the past, and the life of Polish Jews will be presented as an intrinsic element of global and European heritage. Meanwhile, a similarly minded Memorial project (Miejsce Pamieci), run by the European Academy, aims to present the story of opposition movements and moral courage at various points in history, and to encourage reflection on historical matters with the ultimate hope of fostering a common European historical identity. 35 Established by the Znak Christian Culture Foundation.

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G. Concluding remarks Those who are still alive, receive a mandate from those who are silent forever. They can fulfil their duties only by trying to reconstruct precisely things as they were by wresting the past from fictions and legends.36 The (re)construction of Holocaust memory in post-1989 Poland is an emotionally charged process. It was initiated with the removal of earlier taboos against discussing the Holocaust in public discourse, the media and education. The basic question still remains as to whether the plethora of memorial sites, museums, centres of education and civic organizations in post-1989 Poland are indeed able to create spaces where communities of memory can integrate. If they cannot, will Polish society continue to be characterized by the rivalry between competing memories? Can those institutions join history and memory at all? How can education about the Holocaust deal with the Polish national sense of martyrdom, and will it be possible to incorporate the dark moments of history into the collective self-image of Poles without creating or reinforcing divisions? How can facts and events repressed or dismissed from the individual and collective memory be reintegrated into consciousness? These are questions which are being addressed by the kinds of practical efforts that this chapter describes. It is clear that the current approach to Holocaust education in Poland, reflected in the numerous initiatives at international, governmental and NGO level, is to regard the Holocaust as a Polish and a European issue, and not as a strictly Jewish one. The Holocaust is indeed a European legacy and as such it should influence the political culture of contemporary societies.37 Holocaust education is also pedagogically challenging. One may perceive and present the Holocaust as a metaphor for all genocides. Conversely, one may locate it within the framework of local and regional history, as a genocide that happened 'right here', before our parents' and grandparents' eyes. Either way, traditional teaching styles, which focus on the transmission of knowledge, are of limited use in relation to genocide and cannot do justice to the subject's depth. Learning history in an active way is more powerful, more authentic than reading about events in a textbook. The City Gate - NN Theatre letter-writing project mentioned earlier is an example of good practice. There is also much potential in visits to memorial sites, which remove Holocaust education from the confines of the classroom. Instead of teaching 'excathedra', the teacher is in such instances involved in the educational process more as a consultant or a moderator. The Holocaust is a symbol of the 'dangers for European culture' as underlined by Zdzislaw Mach,38 yet when it is presented in schools in Poland at all, it is rarely connected in this way with present and future 36 In Hartman 1994b, 8. 37 Kranz 2002, 104. 38 Mach 1995.

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considerations. Young Poles are dealing now with the oft-suppressed memories of their grandparents who witnessed the genocide and consequent absence of Jewish community, a reality marked by gravestones and synagogues, Hebrew inscriptions on buildings, and the faded paint where mezuzot were once attached to doorframes. They need different approaches, strategies and means, ones that go beyond traditional educational techniques and are more akin to those implemented by non-governmental organizations, and other more informal groups. In short, they need approaches which both wrest the past from fictions and legends, and address the burning issues of contemporary antisemitism, human rights violations and genocides. Wresting the past from fictions and legends is the mandate of all memorial sites, schools and civic organizations, and it is a special task for places that hold the memories of distinct ethnic and religious 'communities of memory', most notably Auschwitz-Birkenau. Their mandate should not be obscured by conflicts of memory. On the contrary, they must respect the value of all these memories, should correct their distortions, and should integrate them for communities and individuals, to make a better civil society and better citizens. Respect, correct, integrate - these are the vital tasks if we are to create a future in which, to paraphrase the words of Prof. Yehuda Bauer on the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, we will not be perpetrators, will not be victims, and will never, but never, be bystanders.

The Roman Catholic Church in Poland and the Dynamics of Social Identity in Polish Society Zdzisiaw Mach One of the most controversial issues in the contemporary history and current transformation of Central and Eastern Europe is the role of religious organizations, especially the Roman Catholic Church, in social and cultural change. This is true, at least for some countries of the region, especially Poland, where the Roman Catholic Church has been one of the central political forces and constructors of ideologies and worldviews. In this chapter I would like to make a few remarks on the role that the Roman Catholic Church plays in the current process of the transformation and reconstruction of collective identities in Poland. For many years I have been doing research on social transformations in Poland, and I believe that, in many respects, observations concerning identity in Poland are relevant to many other societies in present-day Central Europe. Poland is the country in which the Roman Catholic Church has assumed a particularly prominent position in politics and culture, and it is where its role in identity reconstruction can be seen particularly clearly. It seems to me that one can understand a great deal about the role of religious organizations in contemporary European, and in particular Eastern European, social transformations, by examining the processes of identity construction. By creating images of one's own group and of others', building symbolic worldviews, and competing over the ideological control of society in a symbolic dialogue, groups and institutions construct social order and negotiate the division of power in society. Religious organizations, especially established churches, participate in this process, and often, as in Ireland and Poland, play a major role in political and cultural change. It is perhaps obvious to say that Central Europe today experiences a crisis that has many dimensions: social, political, economic, ideological and cultural. It is a crisis, not in the sense of dramatic problems and conflicts, but rather deep transformations, difficult dilemmas, and negotiations of the meanings of basic concepts and ideas. I believe that one of the most difficult aspects of this crisis is that which concerns the identity of various groups of people at different levels of social organization. Despite the differing histories of Central European societies prior to 1945, the 50-year period of communism and Soviet domination created fundamental similarities in many respects. In spite of the Marxist 117

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ideology of the perfect socialist society in which all collective identities linked to previous social formations were supposed to disappear and give way to the development of class identity and subsequently to its dissolution in the classless society, in practice, the politics and ideology of communist states constructed the image of social organization and the model of collective identity according to national criteria. Soviet satellite states were organized after 1945 as nation states, and a great effort was made to make them ethnically homogenous, or to build them in such a way that their ethnic composition would be clear and would constitute the main basis of identity formation. One may suspect that in the attempt to build the post-war Soviet empire national and ethnic factors were used as instruments of manipulation and control. Each of the Soviet satellite Central and Eastern European states had some internal ethnic problems, and real or potential tensions and conflicts with neighbouring states based on ethnic issues. Such political organization of the Soviet empire conformed with the dominating nationalistic view of social organization which Central and Eastern European societies held at that time, according to which each ethnic group should have a political organization - a sovereign state of its own to protect its interests, its cultural identity and its resources from other groups of different culture. According to such a worldview every nation, understood as a cultural unit, as an ethnic group developing its political identity through modernization, social1 mobility and mass education, ought to create its own sovereign state. A. Religion, church and national identity In most parts of Central Europe and in Eastern Europe with the exception of Russia itself, nations in the modern sense developed without their own states. Their nationalistic ideologies therefore remained largely unfulfilled and their movements of national liberation unsuccessful. National identity in these societies was built on the basis of shared culture, mythology, or rather mythologized past, literature, visual art, and music, to a large extent created on purpose by artists who romantically considered themselves creators of the national culture and contributors to the spiritual community of their people. Religion was also a very significant part of that shared national culture, and churches played an important role as constructors and promoters of national culture. Faith and church were strongly linked with national identity, especially in such countries as Poland, where most of the neighbours and most of the enemies defined as such by the mythologized national history were of a different religion. The state was part of national identity and of nationalism as a myth, as a memory of the past (in some cases such as Poland or Hungary), or as dream about the future. On the other hand there was little or no connection between nationalistic ideology and 1 On the discussion of ethnic origin of nations and nationalism see for example Gellner 1983; Smith 1986.

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the actual state, an organization to which citizens owed loyalty and which had a legitimate monopoly over many aspects of public life. Members of the Central European nations did not have a chance to develop a sense of citizenship in relation to their state. There was also no concept of a nation-state economic system, which would link economic activity of citizens to their national identity. Eastern European nationalism developed against the state rather than within the state as was the case in most Western European countries. Opposition to the oppressive state was in Eastern Europe an element of nationalism, a component of national identity, glorified in the core works of the national culture, as a patriotic act. National churches contributed to this by constructing symbolic meanings that would saturate patriotic activity with positive emotions and with religious, sacred sense. In Poland, for example, the Roman Catholic Church developed the cult of St Stanislaus, a medieval bishop of Krakow, sentenced to death by the king for the act of treason. The only historic source, the Chronicle by an anonymous author later referred to as Callus, gave a very vague description of the series of events that led to the bishop's execution.2 The Church interpreted this story in such a way that the king was portrayed as a murderer who personally killed the bishop, while the victim's guilt consisted in criticizing the king for immoral conduct and abuse of power. The bishop thus became a patron saint of all anti-state opposition, and the activity of opposition itself obtained a sacred value as a patriotic act against evil forces.3 B. Construction of identity I understand the construction of identity as a process of building symbolic models which give meaning to the world, offer interpretation of experience, and enable people to understand the reality of life in its present form, in the past as well as in the future. Institutions competing for influence over people's minds offer interpretations of the world and try to gain support by providing a better understanding of it and one which would be better related to their interests, self-esteem, aspirations and various aspects of relations with other groups. Churches also compete over worldviews by constructing meaning through symbolic discourse realized in narratives - that is in stories and images produced by social agents. Discourses provide vocabulary for social interactions,4 and enable people to collectively produce and transform meanings of the world. Narratives, or symbolic texts produced by partners in social relations, make sense of these relations, provide ideological and emotional ground for interactions, construct images of self and of partners, and enable people to make order in the chaotic experience and understand it. Religious organizations in complex societies are among the most active constructors of worldviews, and compete for the leading 2 Callus Anonymus 1989, 54. 3 Kubik 1994,130-3. 4 See Alexander and Smith, 1992.

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roles as providers of meanings and orientation for society. In the postmodern world churches are faced with a situation which they often find difficult to accept, namely that there is no longer a need for or even an approval of their symbolic monopoly, and that more and more people take for granted the existence of a multiplicity of alternative worldviews and symbolic discourses from which they may choose on different occasions, and at different periods in their life. Relativism and pluralism are especially difficult for those churches which, like the Roman Catholic Church in Eastern Europe, are not used to such a competition in the symbolic market. Competition over worldviews and ideologies in the communist world was part of the political game, the struggle for monopoly, the rebellion against the totalitarian system, which would not allow any pluralism. In effect the Church was not used to the free market of symbolic discourses, it came to feel at home in a context in which it had to struggle for survival or for domination.

C. The Roman Catholic Church and Polish national identity In the nineteenth century the Roman Catholic Church in Eastern Europe, especially in those parte where it enjoyed majority support, played a crucial role in the construction of the national identities of modernizing societies. It provided a frame of reference for those who sought an ideological background for their nationalism, for the ideas and movements that would lead to the creation of nations and nation states. In Poland the Church was a leading force behind patriotic attempts to shake off foreign domination, and was perceived as the major if not the only legally existing opposition to the foreign powers occupying partitioned Poland. The Church created a coherent symbolic model, which linked Catholicism with Polishness and was viewed by ethnic Poles as the main agent of Polish nationalism and national identity.5 At the same time the Roman Catholic Church, while integrating ethnic Poles against their national enemies, also created a boundary within the population inhabiting the territory of the old, pre-partition Polish state, separating Poles from other ethnic groups. Protestant Germans, Eastern Orthodox Ukrainians and Belorusians, Muslims and Jews were alienated by the increasing identification of Polishness with Catholicism, and by the construction of the new, national identities in close connection with religion. The nationalistic discourse of Poles presented the world as a polarized system with, on the one side, Catholic Poles struggling for their independence, and, on the other side, Protestant and Eastern Orthodox enemy states (Prussia and Russia). Muslims were considered traditional enemies of Poles and Europeans since the time of Ottoman attempts to conquer southern and eastern European territories. Such a picture was constructed through literature, painting and other cultural texts. Other religious denominations, particularly Jews, although not part of this 5 Mach 1993,147-52; Michel 1991; Hornsby-Smith 1997; also compare Tomka 1997.

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polarized construction, were marginalized as aliens and as people who were not to be trusted because their interests were seen to differ from the Polish national cause. The absence of the Polish national state in the nineteenth century, when Polish nationalism was constructed, resulted in Polish national identity being constructed on the basis of ethnic culture: language, religion, mythologized history, memories of the past victories and the lost sovereignty. This image of the Polish nation did not include ethnically different communities, and religion became an essential component of the newly created national identity. People of other religions therefore did not identify with the Polish nation and its struggle, they remained indifferent or associated with the politically and economically dominant neighbouring nations. During the communist period in Eastern Europe the Roman Catholic Church was generally perceived as an anti-state force, an organization opposing, as much as it could, the communist transformation of the society, its economy, its structure, and especially its culture. The Church opposed the official atheism, the secularization of education, and the elimination of religious elements from national traditions as they were officially constructed, presented and taught. The Church was also against the communist-inspired changes in the legal system - the nationalization of the economy, the introduction of a one-party system, and the suppression of political opposition, as well as developments concerning family life such as liberal divorce law and, especially, the legalization of abortion. But in the reality of everyday discourse, the Church paid little attention to the problems of the private life of citizens or of family morality. Little attention was also given by priests to such problems as work ethics, especially in view of the fact that work and economic activity of citizens had not been before, as mentioned above, the main focus of the Church's attention. The ideological discourse of the Roman Catholic Church concentrated on state politics, national sovereignty, and the construction of national identity of society in such a way that religion became its central element. Communism was seen as a totally alien element, incompatible with anything which might be deemed the essence of the tradition and identity of the societies in Eastern Europe. In Poland the Roman Catholic Church led in the 1950s and later by a charismatic figure of Cardinal Stefan Wyszynski, was also rather sceptical about the liberal reforms in the Church itself, and liberalism in general.6 Wyszynski feared potential influence of liberal ideas, especially among the young, was aware of the popularity of liberalism among intellectuals, and believed that the Church should find its strength in the traditional, simple, folk-style religiosity, with much ritual and little critical reflection. He believed that such a Church would offer the strongest resistance to communism. He was right in many ways, as far as the conflict between church and state was concerned, but in consequence the Polish Roman Catholic Church remained rather conservative, and often inclined to identify liberalism with Marxism and communism. A characteristic feature of Eastern European communist societies was 6 Michel 1991.

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the polarization of symbolic discourses that gave meaning to people's experience in relation to state politics. The reality of social relations was of course not so simple, with many ambiguities, different beliefs, conflicting interests, tensions, as well as individual and collective social mobility. In particular, religious beliefs and practices differed from one segment of society to another, from traditional, peasant society religiosity to postmodern, individual beliefs. On the other hand both the state authorities and the anti-communist opposition, including the Roman Catholic Church, constructed an image of a unified nation. In the symbolic model of the political world, as constructed by the communist state, the nation was united in its progress towards socialism, under the leadership of the party. The anti-communist opposition constructed a model in which the nation was united against the communist state. In Poland, the Roman Catholic Church was portrayed as the supreme leader of anti-communist opposition and thus the leader of the nation. The situation in this respect varied from one Eastern European country to another, depending on the role of religious organizations in local politics, but in Poland the Church enjoyed a great deal of popular support strengthened by its being the only institution independent of the state, and by its identification with Polish national interests. The symbolic political discourse of the Church and the anti-state dissidents presented society as ideologically polarized into two segments clearly set apart and in permanent conflict: the communist, atheistic state and the Polish, Roman Catholic nation with its Church. In this clear and coherent picture there was no place for internal divisions in the society such as ethnic or religious minorities, status differences, class, male-female opposition and so on, all of which were regarded as a weakening of the supposedly united nation. The principle of unity was of tremendous ideological importance. For the Roman Catholic Church it was linked with the idea that Catholicism had been for centuries the essence of Polishness, and therefore the Church became the national institution, the core element of the nation's identity. The Church portrayed itself as the guardian of national-Christian traditions, thanks to which the Polish nation maintained its identity throughout long years of foreign domination. The moral monopoly of the Church would then not be an usurpation or an attempt to deprive people of their right to choose, but rather the logical consequence of the historical development of unity of the nation and its faith. As the ideological competition between church and state in Poland developed, especially in the 1980s, the Church tried to gain as much support as possible, and to establish itself as the centre of Polish national identity. In order to avoid antagonizing potential allies because of differences in worldview, the Church under communism was extremely inclusive. It opened its doors as widely as possible, inviting everybody who did not identify with communism to join. Liberal intellectuals, many of whom were in their religious attitudes, beliefs and view of the world as well as in the practice of their everyday life very far from the ideal type of the devoted Catholic, were nevertheless allowed to operate within the Church's organizational framework, to publish in (relatively

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independent of the state) Catholic journals, and to organize lectures or exhibit works on the Church's premises. The main idea was to unite the whole anti-communist world and to bring it under the Church's protection. This strategy undoubtedly had enormous impact on politics in Poland, and to some extent also in other parts of Eastern Europe. The contribution of the Roman Catholic Church to the destruction of communism is huge and cannot be overestimated. The election of the Bishop of Krakow as Pope only added to the Church's role in this respect. The Pope became a symbol of the anti-communist Church. He also functioned as a living proof that even under communist domination a society led by the Church could produce a personality whose independence, integrity, intellect and moral strength made him a suitable candidate for papacy, the highest office in the Church and one of the leading positions in the Western, Latin, non-communist world. So the Pope was a symbol of national independence and strength. He also symbolized the link between Eastern Europe and the West, a relationship which the communist states had tried hard to make their societies forget.7 As in nineteenth-century Poland, this principle of unity alienated all those who were not Catholic. The few remaining ethnic minorities felt excluded from the constructed image of the Polish nation, as did nonbelievers, atheists who were frequently identified with communists. Within this polarized model there was no place for a non-Catholic who would not be a communist. Paradoxically, the communist state also propagated its own version of the idea of unity - the moral-political unity of the nation with its state. The symbolic discourse of the state also presented society as a culturally homogenous entity, building its socialist institutions and happily marching towards a bright future under the leadership of the Communist Party. This time, of course, there was no place for the Church or religion in the picture. Catholicism was eliminated from the state's symbolic model of the world, and the society was presented as going rapidly through a process of secularization, identified with modernization and socialist development, and therefore with social progress. This discourse of national unity, which seemed to dominate the public symbolic world, had the side-effect of eliminating many social and cultural issues from the discussion. For very many people the problems of minorities, for example, ceased to exist. They were neither talked nor thought about. This was not the way they saw the social world. Most people lacked the concepts and vocabulary to describe society in its complex diversity; a discourse of unity and polarization, of opposition between nation and state, dominated the symbolic world.

7 Kubik 1994, 130-46.

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The end of communism, to which the Roman Catholic Church contributed so much, brought a dramatic change for this powerful institution. The main political conflict was over, and despite the fact that many political parties claimed that the anti-communist revolution was far from complete, the discourse of binary opposition between nation and state largely disappeared, as it no longer corresponded with the feeling that most people in Eastern Europe began to have of living in a free world. A market economy was introduced, and isolation from the West ended. The polarized view of the world was no longer instrumental in giving meaning to experience. People wanted a new model which would account for the change they were experiencing. Freedom, openness and return to Europe became the main idioms of the new discourse. In Poland the new, non-communist government was naturally perceived as having close relations with the Roman Catholic Church. The first noncommunist Prime Minister, Tadeusz Mazowiecki, was a well-known member of the liberal wing of the Catholic intelligentsia. The Church emerged from fifty years of struggle with communism as a victorious, triumphant and extremely powerful institution. But it was not an institution with any experience of operating in a democratic, not to mention a postmodern, pluralistic society. Fifty years earlier, when Eastern European countries were building their nation states, the whole world looked different. Ideas of pluralism, openness and tolerance, now taken for granted in the most advanced liberal democracies, were not popular. In many parts of the Western world religious organizations were strongly linked to states, and had significant influence on the legal system, education and the media. The world had changed after the Second World War, but in Eastern Europe the Roman Catholic Church was busy trying to mobilize societies against communism. On the one hand, it did not have a chance to become an established church with links to government. On the other hand, it enjoyed support and a position of moral authority because of its political role, without having to attempt to influence the state. A free media or a free market of ideas did not exist and education was under the total control of the Communist Party. So there was little to fight for in these aspects of social life, and the Church's energy was directed elsewhere. The great change of 1989 was a triumph of the Roman Catholic Church everywhere in Central Europe, and especially where, as in Poland, the Church was a major architect of the anti-communist revolution. Yet, the Church soon discovered that its dream - among many clergy a vision probably never fully articulated, but nevertheless one clearly present in their worldview - of acquiring a moral monopoly enforced by new political and legal structures, would not be easily fulfilled. The disappearance of the great enemy broke the ideological and political polarization of the society and raised a question-mark over the political role of the Church. In Poland the opinion polls soon discovered that the growing majority of the Polish population objected to the Church's involvement in politics. Still, for many influential members of the

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Catholic hierarchy the temptation to become the established church was hard to resist. So the Church in Poland began to influence both state politics and the transformation of the legal system. The first important goal which the Polish Roman Catholic Church attempted to achieve was to regain direct influence over public education. An effort was made to introduce religion as part of an obligatory school curriculum. Non-believers were to be allowed to take classes in ethics, but this was problematic due to the lack of qualified teachers, especially outside big urban centres. Opponents of the Church's initiative argued that these children who chose (or whose parents chose) not to attend classes of Catholic religion would suffer from intolerance, especially since Poles had forgotten what it was like to live in a culturally pluralistic society. Moreover, the ideological principle of unity made them even less open towards minorities. The Church's chief argument in favour of compulsory religious education was tradition, the link between the Polish national identity and religion, and the ideological identification of atheism with communism. Since it was the communist regime that removed religion from schools, it seemed natural for the first noncommunist government to reintroduce it. The actual decision was made without a proper public discussion or even a parliamentary decision, and this strengthened the view that the Church was seeking direct influence over the state.8 Teachers of religion were to be paid by the state, but they would be nominated by local bishops, and work independently of the authority of school headmasters. The Polish Church failed to realize that society was no longer polarized, that a variety of divisions, previously hidden or 'frozen', had surfaced and had started to influence the worldview of large groups of people. Non-Catholic minorities and nonbelievers became more visible in society. Moreover, many nominally Catholic people who previously (that is, under communism) identified with the Church and were ready to follow the Church's directions, now diverted their attention to domains of life other than religion or politics. The opening of the borders of Eastern Europe to the West resulted, among other things, in a free exchange of ideas and cultural texts. This exchange was not exactly symmetrical. The East was hungry for Western culture, to overcome the long isolation and to satisfy curiosity, as well as to realize the ideal of freedom. But many of these ideas were not compatible with the Church's worldview, and the Church objected to their popularization, especially in the media. Various campaigns were launched against eroticism, religious sects, or publications which could offend Catholics by questioning or mocking the principles of their faith. All texts combining religious elements with sex, even indirectly, were severely critized and the Church demanded that they be banned. Liberalism was interpreted as being against religion, and liberal Western culture as a danger to the spiritual and cultural identity of the people of Eastern Europe. The Church found it difficult to function in a social system dominated by freedom of choice and by a free market of ideas, in which religious institutions were obliged to compete for influence and 8 Gowin 1999.

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where there was scepticism about any claim to absolute truth. Operating within an older, polarized view of the world, the Church tended to identify atheism with communism, liberalism with atheism, and reluctance to show unconditional support to the Church with anti-religious attitudes. As in communism, those who are not with us are against us, and those who are against us are our enemies. Such a view was functional and effective at the time of struggle with the oppressive communist regime, but did not meet the requirements of an open society. Convinced of its influence on society, the Church diverted its attention from politics to morality and family life: here again, disappointment was experienced by many priests and bishops. Sexual morality, the aspect of family life which was of particular concern to the Church, was in Eastern Europe very far from the Catholic ideal. Abortion was widespread, extramarital sex was popular and accepted, and contraceptives became a norm for large segments of the population.9 It was so under communism, and it became even more so with more openness and greater freedom of choice after 1989. But before 1989 the Church was little concerned, at least publicly, with morality, paying more attention to politics. Now the clergy realized not only that their teaching was not being followed, but also that they were going to lose support by emphasizing the necessity for Catholics to live their lives according to church teaching. In Poland, the highly controversial issue of abortion and its legal ban became the focus of attention, the main boundary dividing society, and a test of political orientation. The conflict over abortion saw the emergence of an ideological polarization resembling that of communist times. Communist Poland had a very liberal law concerning abortion, which allowed it to be performed if a woman had serious economic problems, or was in difficult social or personal circumstances. In practice abortion was available on demand. This became regarded as normal by very many, maybe most Poles, and there was silence about abortion in both official, state-controlled, and the oppositional public discourse. Because of the rapid shift of attention of the Church from politics to morality and family, abortion suddenly became a big issue. After a long debate that revealed deep divisions within Polish society, parliament passed a law restricting legal abortion to cases in which a woman's life was endangered by her pregnancy, or in which the pregnancy resulted from a crime, or in instances when the embryo was seriously damaged. The law was a compromise between those who, like the Church, supported a total ban and those who took a liberal, pro-choice view. The compromise did not last long. The new, socialist-dominated parliament attempted to change the anti-abortion law, which for liberals was seen as very restrictive. The main argument was that women ought to have a choice, that social and personal reasons should justify abortion, and that the limitation of access to legal abortion contributed to a rise in illegal terminations, thus segregating society into those who were rich enough not to worry about consequences of unwanted pregnancy and those mainly women from poor families, often those with alcoholic husbands 9 Cf. Marianski 1999; Borowik 2000.

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who had to suffer the consequences of having many unwanted children. The Roman Catholic Church was a main partner in the debate and the conflict over the liberalization of the abortion law. The Church developed a discourse identifying abortion with murder, and those who supported liberalization were portrayed as enemies of the Polish nation and as communists (because it was the communist regime which had introduced the liberal law which was abolished after 1989). The discourse was then transformed into the polarized model in which liberalism equalled communism. The Church's criticism of the liberalization of abortion laws did not take into account the fact that the law was merely about the penalization of abortion, and that the choice remained with women, on whom the Church, should they be Catholic, would always be able to impose its moral and religious sanctions. The way the Church presented the issue gave the impression that liberalization meant an obligation to have an abortion. Nevertheless, according to opinion polls, many Poles supported the liberalization of abortion. The supporters of pro-choice movements were not only socialists and post-communists, but also liberals, often prominent representatives of the former anti-communist opposition, feminists, and some Christian intellectuals who although generally they presented the view that abortion should be avoided, nevertheless regarded it as a lesser evil which could be justified for social and psychological reasons. A liberal view also included the demand of sexual education at schools, availability of contraceptives and many social reforms that would help women to avoid unwanted pregnancy. The Church did not support sexual education or contraceptives, and proposed to consider sex the private concern of families. The idea of introducing sexual education into school curricula was, then, strongly criticized by the Church, which claimed that any such education would mean promoting moral relativism. In the Church's discourse safe sex equalled free sex, and free sex equalled crime. Aware of the fact that a majority within society was likely to support liberalization of the abortion law, the Church opposed the idea of solving the question through a referendum, and tried to use political pressure to influence parliament. Inspired and organized by parishes, pro-life marches and demonstrations were staged in Warsaw and other Polish towns. Petitions demanding the criminalization of abortion were signed in churches all over the country and sent to the parliament before the debate on the abortion law. The result was a compromise: abortion remains illegal, except when the women's life or health is endangered, the embryo is seriously damaged, or the pregnancy results from crime. From time to time radical Catholic politicians, with the support of some clergy and bishops, attempt to make the law even more restrictive, and left-wing politicians periodically announce the need to liberalize the anti-abortion law, but the difficult compromise still holds, as both sides of the conflict generally find it safer not to begin the debate again. It became evident, even before the conflict over abortion, that the Roman Catholic Church was not well prepared to function in a democratic society which emerged from post-communist Eastern Europe. The Church - powerful, strictly centralized, and in its internal

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organization a very non-democratic institution - developed mechanisms of surviving and achieving success in a totalitarian system. In particular, the Church was very skilled in mobilizing people's energy and activity in a centralized, authoritarian state, ideologically and politically polarized, in which all contributors to debate taking place in the public sphere used the symbolic discourse of a black-and-white, polarized world, picturing opponents as enemies and accumulating categories of value-loaded classifications. The pluralistic world, relativism and tolerance, acceptance of differences and readiness to establish different platforms of interaction with people and groups of different worldviews, was for the Church a new world. It seemed easier to try to apply totalitarian methods, the old, familiar language of struggle rather than a newer one of competition. Some prominent members of the Church hierarchy were aware of this. Bishop Tadeusz Pieronek, secretary of the Polish episcopate, said that 'for the Church an unquestionable shortcoming of democracy is its inseparable feature - the principle of majority ... This principle can not be applied to essential issues, that is to those which relate to the principles of faith or morality, within the Church as well as outside it, also in the state'.10 The Church - the major agent of the anti-communist opposition, largely responsible for its destruction in Central Europe found it difficult to accept the consequence of the fall of communism, the birth of democracy and the development of open and pluralistic civil society, in which all institutions, including the Church, must compete for influence. It was easier to reproduce the old, polarized system. The most militant of religious activists are grouped around the Radio Maryja (St Mary's Radio) broadcasting company, led by Father Tadeusz Rydzyk, whose extreme views are too radical even for the Church. The episcopate has often distanced itself from the Radio, especially when it broadcasts antisemitic programmes. Nevertheless Radio Maryja plays an important role in mobilizing social energy both against the left-wing government and more generally against liberal views. It is the voice of many discontented, frustrated people, who want simple answers to their problems, pointing at scapegoats (such as Jews), opposing market reforms as the source of social inequality, and seeking revenge for their misfortunes. It is also the voice of nationalists, those who oppose European integration and who wish to see Poland as an ethnically pure, traditional, Catholic country. Such a simple, polarized image of the world appeals to many people for whom sophisticated arguments are too complicated. The rhetoric of aggression, xenophobia, intolerance and exclusion is linked with extreme traditionalism. After the 2005 parliamentary and presidential elections won by the very conservative (in the political and ideological sense, even if socialist in their views on economic issues) Law and Justice party, Radio Maryja became the semiofficial medium of the new government. Ministers appear on the radio and on the company's new television channel almost daily, where they can freely present their views to their conservative electorate without being asked difficult questions by the journalists. 10 Pieronek 1996,10-11.

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Many church representatives have openly argued against a market economy. This is true both at the highest levels (Pope John Paul II frequently expressed his reservations about a world ruled by money and economic competition) and at the level of parish priests. In research conducted in one of the rural communities in Poland I interviewed a priest who was very critical about the newly introduced market economy, because his congregation was less ready to donate money to the Church, preferring to spend it on consumer goods which had just become available. The Church began to feel that it was losing control over a society that had diverted its interests to economic matters. On the other hand, the Church took full advantage of the new opportunities brought by market reform. Even under communism the Church remained the legal owner of a large amount of property, especially real estate, but like all private owners, it could not derive any financial benefit from the ownership. After 1989 the law changed, and private property owners began to charge high rent for apartments and commercial space. The Church reclaimed control over its property, often quite ruthlessly charging high rents. New church buildings were constructed, and older ones renovated. Such moves serve to develop the material base of the Church, and to strengthen its symbolic presence in the landscape. The Church also demands various privileges in relation to taxation and economic activity. The public is frequently irritated by the ostentatious accumulation of the Church's wealth, especially since many Poles believe that the Church ought to remain poor and focus on charitable work. Yet the most important challenge to the Church post-communism has been ideological competition. New ideas and ways of life came from the West and challenged the Church's worldview. Seemingly, some church officials have chosen the easy option and attempted to influence the state and the media, demanding the limitation of freedom, the imposition of moral censorship and various controls on the media to ensure that anything written or said conforms with the moral principles of the Church. However, free, private media have established themselves during the seventeen years since the change of 1989, and are now sufficiently strong to resist direct ideological and political influences, even if the Law and Justice government, displaying somewhat authoritarian tendencies, repeatedly warns that more control ought to be exercised over their activities. The Church enjoyed great popular support in Poland due to its role in fighting for freedom under communism and because of its status as the only legal institution offering an alternative worldview. In communist Poland the Church did not have any formal power in education or the media, but had a huge informal influence in society. Now, by claiming a role in state policy, it has begun to lose some of its informal authority. Many people, while recognizing the right of priests and bishops to propound moral teaching on such matters as abortion and contraception, at the same time question their right to have their views enacted by parliament and imposed by legal sanctions. Many Poles are disappointed with the Church's approach to the development of a pluralistic civil society. Church attendance is continuously decreasing, and many -

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particularly young and educated people - opt for an individual form of religiosity or are attracted by exotic (for Poles) religions, such as Buddhism, or the various New Religious Movements. The issue concerns the proper boundaries of democratic civil society. Paradoxically, by switching its attention from great national political issues to those of private morality, the Church has lost its influence where it was hitherto strongest. The Church has showed signs of disappointment at the lack of public support, and to some extent has recently returned to the discourse of conflict. This happened after the 1993 parliamentary election brought victory to socialists and post-communists who openly challenged the Church's attempts to secure a moral monopoly over Polish society. One of the elements of the new discourse emerging within the Church since that time is the language of exclusion. Previously highly inclusive and open to all independent-minded people, the Church has begun to demand complete loyalty from those who identify with it. Liberalism and individualism are attacked as identical with anti-religious sentiment, moral nihilism and anti-national attitude. Exclusion also shows in the level of symbolic manifestations directly connected with politics. A good example would perhaps be a picture of the Black Madonna pinned to the jacket of President Lech Walesa - a symbol which alienated nonChristians, non-believers and Protestants for whom the Virgin Mary is not a central religious figure.

E. The Church in Poland and European integration The fear of ideological competition has influenced the Church's attitude towards European integration. Traditionally - that is in the nineteenth century and later under communism - the Roman Catholic Church in Poland was a symbol of belonging to Western civilization. The Church symbolized Latin culture, had its centre in Rome, was universalistic and independent of national or regional control. During communism the Church emphasized those elements in the Polish and Eastern European traditions that linked the region and its nations to Europe, as an alternative to the communist, Russian-born ideology. The increasing openness of Eastern Europe to Western markets, ideological challenge and the desire of Eastern European governments to join the European political and economic structures, prompted reservations and criticism among some Roman Catholic clergy during the 1990s. The general argument of the Church against the European integration of Catholic countries of Eastern Europe was that this process might result in the loss of their national identity; their value systems and their faith would be replaced by the liberal and relativistic culture of Western Europe, commercialism and the market. Europe was also frequently invoked in the debate about abortion, with the European Union and its liberal legislation being presented by anti-abortion movements as decadent, liberal (by then liberalism' was a synonym for 'evil') and, as some prominent members of the Church hierarchy used to say, 'the culture of death'. Some bishops and clergy, especially conservative ones and those

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associated with Radio Maryja, took the side of the nationalistic rightwing parties and the populists, opposing European integration on the ground that it would harm the country's national interest, bringing unfair economic competition and destroying traditional values. In that debate several equations were made: abortion equalled killing, liberalism was identified with atheism, and communism with evil. Abortion, contraception, and Western culture more generally were identified with a culture of death. As the date of the referendum on European Union accession drew near, the Church - or at least, the mainstream clergy and hierarchy - in Poland changed its policy. John Paul II supported accession in several powerful speeches, and this was decisive not only for the Church but also for many Catholics. However, Radio Maryja and some clergy continued to voice criticisms. The most conservative political party in the Polish parliament, the League of Polish Families, continue to predict that disaster would result from Polish membership of the EU. They took part in the first election to the European Parliament in which Poles could vote, and sent a few MEPs to Strasbourg, but openly opposed various EU policies and decisions of the European Parliament. Their MEPs suggested that they would try to establish national factions there, which would of course be in open contradiction to the very idea of the European Parliament. Since the accession of Poland to the EU in May 2004, some prominent members of the Church, and Radio Maryja, have continued their antiEuropean propaganda, emphasizing the alleged conflict between the EU and Polish sovereignty, national values, and traditions, especially those directly rooted in Catholicism. The accession led to new ideas concerning the place of Poland in Europe, such as its role in the possible evangelization of Europe, through which Poles would once again realize their historical mission for Europe and Christianity. In this context, the European Constitution Treaty, and the absence from its text, agreed by the European Convention, of any direct reference to Christianity as the basis of European civilization and identity, remains a difficult issue. In particular, the Preamble to the Treaty was expected by many Catholics to mention Christianity. The decision against this was interpreted as a sign of anti-Christian, and especially anti-Catholic attitudes, and as an indication of the desire to construct Europe as a liberal and atheistic society. This of course was taken as a proof by antiEuropean activists in Poland that their grave prognoses regarding Polish membership in the EU were correct. In its support for Polish nationalism the Church has been active in the military, which has traditionally been identified with patriotism, and was widely trusted even under communism. Military symbols identified with patriotism were employed by the communist regime, and since 1989 the armed forces have served a symbolic function as supporters of the social transformation, while also keeping a rather low profile. The Church successfully acquired a strong and lasting role in the army. The chaplain of the Polish army is present on most state ceremonial occasions, creating

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images that identify the army and the Church with Polish national interests and identity. The main point of contention for the Church today concerns the presence of religion in public life. The Church strongly opposes the view that religion should be the private concern of citizens and that there should be a separation of church and state. The Church in Poland claims that religious believers should have access to public life. This, it is argued, implies that Poland's constitution and legislation should be based on religious principles, so that believers are able to identify with the state and consider it to be their own. Naturally, from a liberal point of view there remains the question of alienating those citizens who are nonbelievers or members of different churches; more fundamentally, the liberal view is that the state should not be based on any religious belief. There is also the matter of the possible claim of the Church hierarchy to be able to control state, legislation and policies, in order to verify their congruence with religious norms. From a liberal standpoint all citizens, be they Catholic believers or not, have access to public life in a democratic society. Finally, the Church also argues that the principle of majority decision-making should not be applied to essential questions where religious beliefs are involved (such as abortion): at the same time, it continues to demand a privileged position in relation to state politics and the media, on the grounds that the majority of Poles are Catholic. To sum up, the Roman Catholic Church has found it difficult to respond to new challenges arising from the development of democracy in Eastern Europe and the desire of newly democratic countries to join European institutions. The Church still uses the discourse of conflict, inherited from communist times, during which the Church built its unique position, at least in Catholic countries like Poland. The exercise of a moral monopoly and direct influence on the state and the law are still its main aims. The pluralistic model is not particularly popular among church representatives and, consequently, the result of their activities is the creation of boundaries dividing society along religious lines. On the other hand, the Church is very slow in reforming itself in such a way that would be more flexible and better adapted to the rules of the market and ideological competition. The development of pluralistic and open civil society will certainly result in a growing reluctance to accept the idea that any institution may claim a monopoly on ideas and values - even an institution as prominent and as closely related to Polish identity as the Roman Catholic Church. Of course for many Poles the Church remains in its traditional role of the pillar of Polishness, and is trusted and respected. The unparalleled, unique position of John Paul n in Polish society served to strengthen the Church's influence as a moral authority. The Pope's death was a great loss to most Poles, although suggestions that a new generation of young people, nicknamed 'generation JPIT, has emerged, with their collective identity based on the Pope's teaching, seems to be rather exaggerated. The Church in Poland is facing a dilemma: will it remain conservative and try to build a collective Polish identity around Catholic doctrine, creating a closed society resisting the temptations of the open, liberal and

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multicultural world, or will it adapt to the challenges of modernity and postmodernity and offer religion as an attractive proposition to those people, especially the young, who are looking for new ideas? For the time being, the Church faces a significant loss of support and influence, as it often relies on the old methods of ideological polarization and the discourse of conflict to win its cause.

The 'Europe of Citizens' vis-à-vis the 'Europe of Nation States' Milan Lycka

I European leaders have recently invested much time and effort in the attempt to locate a common denominator underpinning the many and varied processes of European unification. From a political viewpoint, this is quite an understandable enterprise: on the one hand, it attempts to calm the growing unrest of the populations of so-called 'old countries7 vis-à-vis the eastwards expansion of the European Union, and the problems they associate with the integration of 'newcomers', and on the other hand, it offers hope to the inhabitants of the 'new countries', with all their inferiority complexes based primarily on economic underdevelopment. This search for European identity is both strengthened and weakened by the presence of millions of non-Europeans who settled in the geographical territory of Europe during the course of the twentieth century, and who, with their different cultures and behaviours, each more or less resistant to integration into the majority society, present a real challenge to the processes of European 'homogenization'. The attempt to locate a 'European identity' has often been conceptualized as the search for a clearly defined cluster of qualities, according to which the inhabitants of the Old Continent can be measured and against which they may be classified as being Europeans or non-Europeans. To set up such criteria is in itself a very problematic task; even worse, it seems doomed to failure: being able to comply with, let us say, 50 per cent of the criteria, am I (only) a 50 per cent European? Can anyone be judged 100 per cent European? Attempts at the top-down imposition of such norms have failed, as illustrated by the case of the so-called European 'constitution'. If we understand European identity, or 'being European', simply in terms of how one handles practical issues without some sense of a common heritage, or a spiritual unity, the future of European integration is jeopardized. The authors of the 'constitution' were obviously aware of this threat, and therefore tried to define an essential principle that underpinned and justified its rules. Interestingly, most of the subsequent discussion revolved around the issue of the religious - or more accurately, Christian - roots of European civilization. Does European identity have anything that we might term a religious essence? 134

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II

This chapter will discuss the conceptualization of Europe in the Czech philosophical tradition. The specific position of the Czech Lands in the middle of the continent, and their consequent intermediary status between two different concepts of European statehood, based on two diametrically opposed forms of Christianity, is reflected in the spiritual mindset of the Czech people, as articulated by prominent Czech philosophers and political leaders. I will, first of all, demonstrate the fundamental differences that exist between Eastern and Western Christian perceptions of the roles of individuals, politics, and religion differences that reflect even more fundamental disagreements over such theological concepts as history and salvation. In the light of these general remarks, I will offer an analysis of Czech self-perception, focusing primarily on ideas of such spiritual and intellectual giants as T. G. Masaryk and J. Patocka. Ill

It is popular in the Czech Lands to regard that territory as a kind of 'bridge'. The bridge links two banks of a river, enables their communication, mediates between them; at the same time, the bridge is that which is walked over, or trampled upon. Being a bridge is a privilege: the Czechs have always felt themselves to be the mediators between Eastern and Western Europe, able to understand both 'sides'. However, no one can understand them, and this is the tragic fate of the bridge. Unable to resist the waves of violence sweeping through the area, forced to join one invading power today, another tomorrow, the Czechs have tended to create a specific view of their destiny, place and role within Europe. With rare exceptions, they have played only a secondary role in the power games of European rulers, and their territory, albeit in the geographical heart of the continent, has usually been conceived of as standing on the fringes of the greater empires, both Eastern and Western. IV When the prince of the Great Moravian Empire1 Rostislav (846-69) invited two Greek missionaries to spread Christianity in Central Europe (863), he was taking an important step towards the incorporation of that territory into a broader European context. Politically, it meant a strengthening of Byzantine influence in the area (in competition with Rome); culturally, it led to the development of an autonomous Slavonic way of life; and religiously, it saw the creation of a specific Christian cult based on the Eastern rite and the use of the Slavonic vernacular. Although this situation was only short-lived and Western (Latin) 1 In its height the Great Moravian Empire covered territories of the Czech Lands (Bohemia and Moravia), Slovakia, Hungary and probably a part of present-day Austria.

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Christianity soon prevailed, surviving remnants of this original tradition can be traced as late as the eleventh century. And echoes of this almost 'mythical' past may be heard repeatedly in the spiritual setup of the Czech people, particularly in the idea of pan-Slavism. On the other hand, the basic theologico-political concepts of Eastern Christianity, including that of Cesaro-Papism, did not take root in the spiritual history of the Czech people.2 In both religious and political terms, the beginnings of Czech statehood were influenced markedly by the neighbouring Germans. The idea of Czech submission to more powerful rulers found its first articulation in the 'St Wenceslas tradition', so shamelessly misused later by Czech fascists during the Nazi occupation in the twentieth century. The ascension of the Habsburgs to the Czech throne in 1526, and more particularly the direct control of Czech territory by the Austrian empire from the end of the seventeenth century until the end of the First World War, impacted heavily on the Czech mentality. In political terms, the Czechs were drawn into the power games of their German-speaking neighbours; their stubborn resistance to assimilation and their strong will to remain different gradually evolved however into a negative selfperception and self-definition as 'non-Germans', and eventually also to the conviction that it was necessary to fight any form of 'panGermanism'.3 The positive side of this development was the preservation of a distinct Czech culture and language, which enabled the acceleration of the process of the national renaissance in the nineteenth century. Religiously, the Czechs joined the Western Christian family, disconnecting themselves, with some exceptions, from the spiritual heritage of the Great Moravian Empire. The turbulent history of the Christian faith in the Czech Lands since the fifteenth century has also had much to do with the influence of the German-speaking nations: one thinks here of the preReformation (Hussite) movement that drew the Czechs into a military conflict with most of Europe (represented by 'German' crusaders); the Protestant episode of Czech history in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries (caused by the influence of German (and other) Protestant states); and the swift re-Catholization of the Czech Lands in the seventeenth century, under the aegis of the Austrians.

2 Some of the basic theological differences of the Eastern and Western forms of Christianity can be expressed in examples as follows: in the West, the emphasis was on the role of an individual while in the East on the community; individual salvation was the key notion in the West, while Eastern theology focused more on the salvation of the universe (cosmic Christianity); basically, there was no fusion of ecclesiastical power with the political in the West (pope's authority different from the emperor's) while in the East the head of the Church was also the head of the state (Cesaro-Papism); and there are many other examples. 3 Masaryk was almost obsessed by that idea.

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V Two possible interpretations of such a history have prevailed. According to the first one, 'Czech history' means nothing more than that 'a Czech history'. This view is represented by the Czech historian Josef Pekaf (1870-1937), according to whom the sense of Czech history lay in Czech history itself. For Pekar, the Czechs had always adopted progressive influences from the West via Germany. The story of Czech history was one of the creative synthesis of European ideas: 'the autonomy of the Czech evolution is essentially limited by the spiritual influence and directive of Europe'.4 But since the Czechs and the Germans share the same geographical space, their influence on each other was mutual. We cannot speak of Germanization of the Czechs only, there has always been an accompanying 'Czechization' of Germans as well. The Czechs were not really the sovereigns over their own destiny: 'the order of things, established by fate, has a greater say in the course of our history than our own decision'.5 But when their 'patriotic' enthusiasm corresponded with the moral progress of Europe, the Czechs became great, and vice versa, Pekaf argued.6 The other interpretation is illustrated by the contribution of Tomás Garrigue Masaryk (1850-1937). A gifted thinker, Masaryk felt that the meanings of Czech history transcended simple historical events. According to him, the Czech nation was worthy of its own state, but Czech politicians and the nation in general must undergo a process of moral regeneration, based on the traditions of the Czech reformation and the love of truth anchored within it. He developed a new concept of humanity and human endeavour, emphasizing the love of truth, moral integrity, faith in the power of the human spirit, and a duty to contribute to the general development of human society through the performance of even seemingly 'unimportant', everyday work. In this sense Masaryk's solution of the question of the meaning of Czech history assumes a religious character.7 This term must be understood in a specific way. Masaryk himself grew up as a Catholic in a rather conservative family. Later he 'converted' to Protestantism, and he retained a life-long sympathy for the Hussite movement. As a strictly rational thinker and philosopher he developed a worldview that might be characterized as a kind of 'rational theism'. For him the religious dimension of Czech history lies, therefore, in its capacity to bear a universal message or understanding of the new humanity to other European nations. Later, when Masaryk became an active political figure and a leader representing Czech interests in the 4 5 6 7

Pekaf 1990, 394. Pekaf 1990, 405. Cf. Pekaf 1990, 405. There was a lot of discussion about the nature of Masaryk's thought: some took him for a typical positivist thinker, others considered him a religious enthusiast. Patocka's answer is that 'Masaryk is neither; he is a humanist who struggles with the whole long and difficult humanistic tradition, with all its divisions and imbalances/ See Patocka 1996b, 162.

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changing political situation in Europe, he even translated this idea into concrete political language, daring to say, 'we gave the Allies a programme: this is not an exaggeration, our friends in France, England and America have admitted it themselves'.8 According to Masaryk, this programme aimed at 'reshaping7 the political map of Central and Eastern Europe. The main goal was not only to change the balance of power in the area but also to bring about a moral and spiritual (meaning: religious) re-creation of Europe as a whole. 'The Allies proclaimed their goal a renewal and renaissance of Europe and it is obvious that it cannot be achieved through a mere change of a map. The entire spirituality of Europe has to change. Europe's revival must be moral and spiritual as well as political/ The condition for such a revival must be the adoption of a 'national principle'. According to Masaryk, the national principle is a 'democratic' element, opposing the 'theocratic' principle of a state. Nationalism in this sense does not mean chauvinism, but is the utmost expression of democracy. A Europe of nation states means, accordingly, a democratic community ('federation') of nations peacefully cooperating. This concept found its explicit articulation in one of the versions of the Declaration of Independence of the Czechoslovak Nation: 'In its foreign policy the Czechoslovak State will take an effective part in the reorganization of Eastern Europe and through that of the whole of Europe and humanity; our nationalistic policy will promote desirable internationalism.'9 Masaryk knew quite well that the term 'nation' could function differently in different contexts. It can refer to an ethnic entity (people sharing common language, territory, history, cultural heritage), or it can be used in the sense of a political nation, a community of people who live for a long time in the same state and share the same institutions, the same political history. There must be, as well, a distinction between a 'nation' as a political term, and 'people', a term representing rather 'a mass of the nation in a democratic sense'.10 Nevertheless, being aware of all these possible meanings of the term 'nation', the fundamental dichotomy is for him: nation (a progressive, democratic principle) - state (a reactionary, theocratic principle). In this sense the nation as a community of individuals secures civic rights, while the state as a supreme power violates individual rights. No wonder, then, that Masaryk prefers the Europe of nations ('national states') to the Europe of states ('multinational states'). The emancipation of nations means implicitly the emancipation of individuals, citizens: 'Humankind does not aim at uniformity but at unity; and the emancipation of nations will enable an organic association, a federation of nations, of Europe and the whole of humankind.'11

8 Masaryk 1925, 450. 9 Declaration of Independence, 1918, a copy of the second proposal, 6. 10 Masaryk 1994, 93. 11 Masaryk 1994,104.

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VI

This pathetic, almost naive vision of the future of Europe (and, indeed, of the world) must be contrasted with the concept of Europe of Jan Patocka (1907-77). This prominent twentieth-century Czech philosopher is deeply aware of the spiritual crisis of European humanity that, according to him, is rooted in the very beginnings of modern thought. The remedy must be sought out in the spiritual heritage of ancient Greece, purified of all metaphysical claims and translated into a concrete context. The main feature of European thinking is the ability of non-engaged reflexion, of theoretical posture that opens up ways to the development of scientific worldviews. Scientific knowledge means power, however, and to forget about the spiritual basis of technology as the utmost expression of science might prove fatal to European civilization. According to Patocka, European spirituality has three basic aspects which came into being simultaneously: philosophy, politics and history. All these aspects reflect one fundamental change in the human attitude towards the world: from the unreserved acceptance of the given, of what is present, to the openness for what is happening, for the future. Prehistoric humankind relied on myth with its eternal, absolute truths to give life its sense; history begins when these truths are shaken and 'life' is associated with freedom: 'From that moment on this life is essentially and in its very being distinct from life in acceptation; here life is not received as complete as it is, but rather transforms itself from the start - it is a reaching forth.'12 This life in liberty is political life, life in the polis, 'where life is no longer its sole own purpose but where there is the possibility of living for something else'.13 The political life should not be idealized, however, neither in the sense of materializing the highest (Platonic) ideas of the true and good, nor in the form of selfless devotion to the common good. At the core of political life is struggle - 'the spirit of the polis is a spirit of unity in conflict, in battle'.14 The nature of politics finds its expression in philosophy,15 philosophy turns to be profoundly ethical. So philosophy transcends the mere theoretical and reflective attitude, it is an openness to new challenges and, at the same time, the response to them, bearing full responsibility for whatever decision emerges. This new worldview possesses universal significance; once history began, it has become world history. 'The Western spirit and world history are bound together in their origins: it is the spirit of free meaning bestowal, it is the shaking of life as simply accepted with all its certainties and at the same time the origin of new possibilities of life in that shaken situation, that is, of philosophy7.16 Philosophy in this sense is not a discovery of existent truths; it is a search for such truths, not from a distant point of view but from a position of full commitment; it is the care 12 Patocka 1996a, 38. 13 Patocka 1996a, 37. 14 Patocka 1996a, 41. 15 'the spirit of the polis survives ultimately always in the form of philosophy', Patocka 1996a,41. 16 Patocka 1996a, 41.

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for the soul. 'Care for the soul means that truth is something not given once and for all, nor merely a matter of observing and acknowledging the observed, but rather a lifelong inquiry, a self-controlling, self-unifying intellectual and vital practice/17 The contemporary crisis of European spirituality starts when this essential principle of the care for the soul, 'the care to be', has been abandoned and the dominant concern becomes the care for the external world, 'the care to have'. The spirit of Enlightenment, the dominion of reason, natural sciences and technology, gave humankind the illusion of having the keys to the solution of all problems. On the other hand, the 'death of God' opened the gates for sheer nihilism and a general moral crisis in Europe. In the boom of nineteenth-century German philosophy Patocka sees an attempt to establish limits to the spiritual domination of the Enlightenment with its totalitarian claims; it should be limited to the enquiry of nature while the spiritual and moral realms should be reserved for philosophical contemplation. However, once these theoretical principles had become real political incentives, they lead to contrary ideological concepts: 'the idea of spiritual individuality (which will be used for ongoing particularization and national conflicts in Europe), the idea of the state as an earthly divinity which brooks no limitation of its sovereignty'.18 For Patocka, the national fragmentation of Western Europe in the nineteenth century and the totalitarian 'unification' of Eastern Europe in the twentieth century are both false ideological constructs with disastrous consequences. The first leads to the unleashing of collective demonic ghosts, and the second to the suppression of individual human rights. Moreover, the problem of individual rights and human liberty is no longer an issue between ideologies: between liberalism and socialism, democracy and totalitarianism. 'Modern individualism is increasingly being unmasked as a collectivism (universalism), and collectivism as this false individualism.'19 The unification of Europe can be based only on the revival of the authentic European philosophy: the care for the soul. Not in a splendid contemplative isolation but in search for the solution of historical problems; not of the history itself - this must be preserved as a problem. But dealing with specific issues we should not lose sight of the horizons: 'Today the danger is that knowing so many particulars we are losing the ability to see the questions and that which is their foundation/20

'Wars of the twentieth century and the twentieth century as war' - the title of the sixth of Patocka's lieretical' essays characterizes fairly well the situation of contemporary Europe. The tragedy of war tore Europe into pieces and the idea of Europe as a shared spiritual space seemed to vanish forever. 'Now Europe entirely vacated its global position, lost its

17 18 19 20

Patocka 1996a, 82. Patocka 1996a, 88-9. Patocka 1996a, 115. Patocka 1996a, 118.

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empires, its prestige, lost its self-confidence and self-understanding/21 But even in the darkest moments of the war's inferno, there were always moments of meaningfulness, glimpses of hope. "The front-line experience7, the relativization of life and death, 'day' and 'night', war and peace, all that leads to the relativization of our sense of the 'other', of the enemy: 'the enemy is no longer the absolute adversary in the way of the will to peace; he is not here only to be eliminated. The adversary is a fellow participant in the same situation .. A22 Patocka calls this situation the solidarity of the shaken, 'shaken in their faith in the day, in "life" and 'peace" '. The rebirth of Europe cannot be based on concepts, plans, or ideas; it must spring up from the deepest existential experience of those in the front line. The peaceful future of Europe will arise from the state of war which will end in 'the solidarity of those who are capable of understanding what life and death are all about, and so what history is about'.23 Here we can hear the echo of the ancient concept of being as polemos, as a struggle, which is so dear to Patocka; conflict does not divide but unites. Europe's future lies in unity in diversity; only the internal tension within Europe's spirit can save the dynamics of European history and, through this, the appropriate position of Europe on the global scene. VII Masaryk was able to see the Czech situation in the broader context of European, or global, realities, to locate the role of the individual and of national tradition in the materialization of enlightened ideals of liberty and equality as part of the general processes of European 'unification'. The specific contribution of the Czech national tradition can be characterized, according to Masaryk, as 'religious', in the sense of a rationalist, enlightenment concept of religion as a humanist ethics. Patocka, on the other hand, analyses the achievements of the European spirit more profoundly, speaking of the origins of history as the most remarkable result of the movement of the European spirit from its unproblematic, pre-historical stage, into an unreserved opening for the future, with all its risks and threatening insecurities. Through this Patocka engages also the dark, irrational aspects of the human spirit in the formation of the new historical era, manifested so brutally in the apocalyptic wars of the twentieth century and represented by the ominous totalitarian regimes. Through the prisms of the views of these two prominent Czech thinkers we can also look at the reality of the European Union today. Aside from all the other, more strictly historical, sociological and psychological factors that have encouraged the Czech Republic to accept European norms and standards, and eventually to join in the EU project, 21 Patocka 1996a, 129. 22 Patocka 1996a, 131. 23 Patocka 1996a, 134.

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we must also take seriously the influence of these hidden philosophical incentives, so deeply rooted in the Czech intellectual tradition. Without them, the 'European' outlook of the Czech Republic would be incomplete, and many of the Czech people's reactions, responses and attitudes towards particular problems and challenges would appear irrational and unintelligible.

The Religious Society of Czech Unitarians (RSCU) and the Construction of Czech National Identity Andrew James Brown

A. Introduction The Religious Society of Czechoslovak (now Czech) Unitarians (henceforth the RSCU) was founded in Prague during 1922 by Norbert Fabián Capek (1870-1942)1 under the name of the Religious Liberal Fellowship.2 Capek was born in the South Bohemian village of Radomysl to a Roman Catholic family but by the age of eighteen he had joined the Baptists, eventually becoming a successful preacher and missionary. His religious views developed considerably from 1898 onwards and by 1921, at the very end of his seven-year period in the United States of America, he finally adopted a Unitarian faith. Capek had first been introduced to Unitarians in 1910 by Tomás Garrigue Masaryk (whose wife was herself a Unitarian) during the World Congress of Free Christianity and Religious Progress in Berlin where an American Unitarian delegation was present.3 When exploring the religious roots of contemporary Europe we must take care to consider, not only the region's larger and more obvious manifestations of religion and spirituality, but also some of its smaller, more localized and subtly influential expressions such as the Unitarians in general and the RSCU in particular. Looked at carefully it is clear that religion and 'spirituality' has often been expressed across Europe in ways that have not tended to form large and highly visible institutions and communities. In part this has been because many of these smaller 1 The only English biography of Capek is that by Henry 1999. An informative short online biography of Capek is available at: www.uua.org/uuns/duub/articles/norbertcapek. html 2 Doláck 2000 points out that this name, 'Svobodné Brarstvf, is better translated as Tree Brotherhood7 or Tree Fellowship'. 3 Wendte 1911. At this initial meeting, however, they did not respond entirely favourably to Capek's overtures and it would be a mistake to believe that the Unitarianism Capek developed was of an American type. His Unitarian faith was wholly shaped by his exploration of faith within the Czech context and it is Czech through and through. Indeed his wife, Maja, noted, '[d]uring all his years in America Capek never had an interest in finding out more about the Unitarian Church. Why should he be interested in a church that had no missionary spirit and was not willing to give a hand vto a groping soul?': Henry 1999,112. For a brief hint of the tensions that existed between Capek and American Unitarianism see Henry 1999, 112, and Doláck 2000.

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groups have developed mystically and pantheistically (or panentheistically) orientated theologies. Such groups, stressing the importance of the individual's encounter with God in and through all creation, have not needed to develop complex systems of clergy and clearly defined doctrine to mediate the faith to their members. We should also note that, from the Renaissance onwards, the use of human reason in exploring matters of faith also became increasingly important among a number of these groups. Reason, along with mysticism, locates religious authority firstly in the individual conscience and only secondarily (if at all) in the texts, doctrines and clergy of external institutions. In various combinations these tendencies became particularly visible in a number of radical groups during the period of the Reformation and particularly among tiiose who became known as Unitarians.4 Many of these small groups held beliefs that inevitably challenged ideas which underwrote the prevailing religious and political power of Christianity (whether expressed as Roman Catholicism, Orthodoxy or Protestantism - at least in its magisterial forms). One such group with whose tradition the RSCU identifies was known as the Bracia Polscy (Polish Brethren), which assembled publicly for the first time on 10 June 1565 in Brzeziny, Poland.5 Initially called Socinians, after their leading lay-theologian the Italian Faustus Socinus (1539-1604), as their ideas spread, they became better known as Unitarians, a name derived from their insistence upon the absolute Unity of God and the humanity of Jesus. Their theology and the direct and painful experience of persecution for holding it led them to develop from the outset certain key principles which have not only marked all subsequent Unitarian congregations, but also become central to contemporary European secular society, namely, complete mental freedom in religion rather than bondage to creeds or confessions; the unrestricted use of reason in religion, rather than reliance upon external authority or past tradition; and generous tolerance of differing religious views and usages rather than insistence upon uniformity in doctrine, worship or polity.6 This chapter begins by briefly considering the two interconnected religious ideas central to the RSCU, first, their belief in One God and, second, their great stress upon the service of others, initially derived, of course, from Jesus' two great commandments summing up his own Jewish faith (Mark 12.29-31 and parallels). It then continues with an exploration of how their founder's interpretation of these two ideas, inherited in general terms by the modern RSCU, have impacted upon 4 See Williams 1992 and Baylor 1991. 5 Hewett 2004, 24; Wilbur 1947, 330-1. 6 Wilbur 1947, 5. In the Racovian Catechism of 1604 (co-authored by Socinus), a foundational document for all Unitarians, the Polish Unitarians wrote: 'Whilst we compose a Catechism, we prescribe nothing to any man: whilst we declare our own opinions, we oppress no one. Let every person enjoy the freedom of his own judgement in religion; only let it be permitted to us also to exhibit our view of divine things, without injuring and calumniating others/ Rees 1818, xcvi-xcvii.

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their development of both a post-communist Czech Unitarian religious identity and an understanding of belonging to a far wider community not just of Europe but, ultimately, all creation. This is followed by a brief consideration of their distinctive Flower Communion service devised by Capek. This service has been adopted by many Unitarian churches worldwide but not always with success. As we shall see, although the service's 'headline' meaning is the universally transposable idea of the unity of God and all creation (an idea which can clearly underwrite large regional and global understandings of community), Capek presented it in a way which only carries real weight when it remains rooted in a living understanding of the particularities of Czech history and that of the RSCU. It is a service which helps us see that indigenous practices (even when they point so clearly to a universalistic worldview) cannot be easily and without great care transplanted into another culture and context without changing their meaning in sometimes subtle but considerable ways. The chapter concludes with five points showing how the RSCU's faith may be seen to contribute usefully to current debates concerning the role of religion and the question of national identity in Europe as a whole. B. Belief in One God and service of others In common with all other Unitarians Capek believed in One God. Of course, simple though this sounds, belief in the Unity of God can be unfolded in myriad and complex ways and in Capek's interpretation it took on a particularly panentheistic and mystical quality, an interpretation adopted by the RSCU as a whole. Capek believed that humankind knew God both as utterly transcendent and as immanent. Of the transcendent aspect of God Capek wrote: 'God is above all, the only one, unexplored, misunderstood, our Father and Friend.'7 Of the immanent aspect of God Capek believed that God was everywhere present, in and through all things and that: 'God has not revealed8 Godself otherwise than in nature around and in the depth of the soul.' Such a panentheistic understanding of the Unity of God inevitably also implied a deep underlying unity of humankind (and by extension all creation). One contemporary British Unitarian theologian, Clifford Martin Reed, has summed up this position as follows: Because God is One, Creation is one. Because Creation is one, humanity is one. Because humanity is one, my neighbour and I are one. And, indeed, each of us is one integrated whole participating in one infinitely greater yet still integrated whole.9 Consequently Capek's faith was never merely an abstract theological idea but always one which had profound social, psychological, political 7 Doláck 2001,128. 8 Doláck 2001,128. 9 Reed 2006.

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and ecological ramifications. This was reflected in Capek's lifelong commitment to the service of one's neighbour and a passionate love of the natural world - a combination^ that finds ultimate expression in his Flower Communion service. As Capek noted at the founding of the RSCU: 'Religion begins with service for others' and, in a memorable passage from one of his sermons, Buh v mysli lidi (God in people's minds), he wrote: My conviction is that my life has meaning and purpose if I live in God and for God ... Anytime I want something only for myself, and anytime I hesitate to forgive, tolerate, suffer for truth, or sacrifice for goodness - it is me in separation from God. But anytime I want only truth and goodness and enjoy goodness and truth wherever it appears, and anytime I roll up my sleeves to start work that will serve the human whole and the world to progress so that everybody will live and breathe in a better way - it is God in me, who is in all other people in the same way. Then God's spark glimmers in me which is connected with all others in the whole universe as the source and substance and manifestation of the eternal fire, the fire of God.10 These twin aspects of Capek's Unitarian theology (and that of the present RSCU), the transcendent and the immanent aspects of God, function in two connected ways relevant to the themes explored in this volume. First, the transcending, overarching aspect is what underwrites for them the desirability of working towards the creation of ever larger commonwealths of existence and, second, the immanent aspect is what has driven them to instantiate this in their own country and culture. They have always felt that one of the major tasks of religion should be to help people understand this directly and not to slip into a narrow religious sectarianism or political nationalism. C. The relationship between the RSCU's theology and the

construction of Czech national identity

Key to understanding Capek's thought and the RSCU is to realize that for them the universal is always accessed through the particularities of existence, in nature and, as we have seen, through service to others. This recognition of the value of the particularities of human existence helps to explain why he was so concerned to explore his homeland's history and identity.11 His research led him to discover the radical Czech Christian tradition of Jan Hus (c. 1370-1415), the Unitas Fratrum (the Moravian Brethren) and the Czech Brethren, and it was with this tradition that Capek began strongly to identify as a Unitarian. What he discovered assured him (and he hoped other Czechs) that his panentheistic Unitarianism was not some alien engrafting but in fact firmly grounded 10 Doláck 2001,129-30. 11 See Capek 1905.

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in the history and particular experiences and faith of his homeland. Capek's desire to make this explicit can be seen when he describes the history of the Society's church building (now called Unitaria) in Prague at 8 Karlova Street: The house is of great historical value. In 1404 it was occupied by a sort of liberal Christian body. They called themselves 'Brethren & Sisters of the Free Spirit.' They were accused of laying more stress on a Christian life than articles of faith. They believed more in the 'inner light' than the letter of the Bible. Further they did not believe in the Trinity and were accused of pantheistic tendencies. I regard these people as the first Czech Unitarians.12 In the following passage, written in 1924 and delivered to a Unitarian audience in the United States (which also reveals clearly how he was concerned to make clear the distinctive Czech character of his Unitarianism), Capek sums up the faith of the RSCU: What kind of religion is this Unitarianism? It is humanity lightened by divinity. It is humanism and theism combined. It is not the kind of humanism without God and without a soul, but the humanism of those great men who from time to time called our nation to a new life. When John Hus appealed to reason and conscience against the authority of the pope, it was work for humanity. When Comenius conceived school as a workshop of humanity, it was the continuation. I specially quote his words: 'man finds himself best in his own innermost, nowhere else, for then in himself he easily finds God and all.' What else is it but to begin with man when seeking God? The opinion that religion is outgrown can be held only about the religion that was not human enough, that remained under the level of humanity or remained, so to say, hanging in the sky, and could not answer the needs of men in their daily life. ... While worshipping the liturgical Christ people could not hear the human Jesus who asked for love to men. Unitarianism is the religion of humanity in the best sense of the word. It has rejected the inhuman and barbaric conception of God and by this brought God nearer to human understanding; it has established a more intimate relation of Jesus [by emphasizing] the value and sovereignty of man. Today it looks as if mankind was on the crossroad not knowing in what direction to move— Our age calls for watchmen who would stand on the crossroad and warn people not to go back to barbarism and bestiality, but to go from views only terrestrial and selfish to cosmic views, from Humanity to Divinity.13 The church Capek founded met with considerable success and in its first twenty years the church in Prague had become the largest Unitarian congregation in the world with 3,200 members, with approximately 8,000 Czechs considering themselves Unitarian. We will never know what 12 Henry 1999, 154. 13 Henry 1999, 195-6.

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might have happened had the RSCU been able to develop in a relatively stable non-violent environment because the course of Czech history (and therefore its self-identity) was, in quick succession, radically altered by the Nazi and then the communist regimes. Not surprisingly the liberal theology held by Capek and the RSCU was not highly regarded by either regime. It appears that the Nazi regime had plans to close the church but the war ended before they could see them through. Although the congregation and its buildings survived the conflict a number of leading figures in the movement were killed, the most notable being Capek himself. After being arrested on 28 March 1941 he was tried and, in June 1942, ordered to Dachau by the Prague Gestapo. He died on 12 October of the same year at Hartheim Castle, near Linz, Austria, during one of the Nazis' infamous 'medical tests'. Leadership of the movement passed to his son-in-law, Dr Haspl. The liberation of the country in 1945 naturally brought the RSCU a sense of hope for the future but the moment of respite was short-lived. The rise to power of the communists in 1948 brought with it a renewed and extended period of religious and social repression which severely curtailed the community's activities. It was during this period that most of the long-term damage to their identity as both Czechs and Unitarians occurred. The regime did not allow churches to organize any youth meetings such as Sunday schools and, whilst worship for adults was permitted, many people were simply too frightened to attend services because this could result in serious consequences, such as the loss of employment. This inevitably impacted upon the community's desire and ability to congregate and worship freely and so nourish and pass on its faith. Not surprisingly commitment to, and knowledge of, Czech Unitarianism declined rapidly and left the RSCU as a whole thoroughly demoralized. No longer having a confident sense of identity, it was inevitable that other influences would come into Czech Unitarianism and, especially after Dr Haspl's death, many of these were postmodern and eastern-influenced 'New Age' ideas (in common with some other Unitarian churches in Europe and America).14 One of the leading contemporary Czech Unitarians, Jaroslava Dittrichová, described the religion practised in Prague during this period as being like a 'mixed grill' and it very nearly allowed the death of Unitarianism in the Czech Republic.15 Even after the fall of the communist regime in 1989 the troubles of the RSCU were not over because this 'spiritually vulnerable situation' made it possible for a man called Vladimir Strejcek to be accepted as the leader of their church in Prague at the beginning of 1991 with what Dittrichová calls 'all his irrational ideas'.16 Strejcek even managed to take over their building, a situation which was, happily, reversed by the courts in May 2000. The 14 It is vitally important to understand that, today, in both the USA and Europe, one can find a variety of 'Unitarianisrns'. Some have maintained a clear Christian identity while others now see themselves as decidedly post-Christian. If in doubt about any particular group's position the reader may encounter - check and don't assume! 15 Hill et al 2002,197. 16 HUÍ et al 2002,197.

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recovery from this low point has been slow but today, in 2006, the RSCU has three congregations in Prague, Brno and Plzeñ and one fellowship in Libérée and consists of about 420 members. Their response to these very damaging experiences was expressed most clearly and succinctly at an international Unitarian/Universalist theological symposium in Oxford during 2000. The audience contained many American and Western European Unitarians who, echoing general trends within wider secular culture (particularly in Western Europe), have become increasingly suspicious of all forms of religious expression and practice. Religion and religious belief are perceived by them not as positive influences on the world but instead as some of the key root causes of conflict and division. In consequence many of them are desirous of abandoning 'God-talk' entirely and wish to transform themselves and their communities into secular humanist moral/ethical societies which are simply concerned to address issues of social justice. Jaroslava Dittrichova's paper, coming from what is at present one of the most secular countries in Europe, came as quite a surprise to such hearers and deserves to be quoted at length: [B]elief in one God - is certainly the main Unitarian principle from the historical point of view. We think that this principle is one of the main principles also in the contemporary Czech Unitarianism. Many of you are of different opinion. Perhaps those of you who are non-theists do not find language about God useful. You may think the word God is much abused, and often used to refer to a kind of personal God. You may believe that the fruits of our life matter more than beliefs about God. This may be partly true, but there is a possible hidden danger in this idea. We who lived under the communist brand of totalitarianism were able to see and experience the consequences of a system without God, a system that considered man to be the centre of the world, without responsibility to something higher than himself - or even without a sense of responsibility to 'the order of being/ [...] We believe together with Vaclav Havel that in our contemporary world, we should respect what is beyond us. It seems to us that it is not important whether we call it the order of nature, the absolute orvGod. We are not afraid of the word 'God/ We use it because Dr. Capek and Dr. Haspl used this word in their sermons and books, and because the word 'God' is used in other churches in our country which are close to us more now than at any previous time. We believe that a humanism which considers human beings the centre of the world without respect to something higher allows humans to be driven by their particular interests rather than governing their behaviour in a way that takes account of general interests. This results in the plundering of natural resources and other dangers existing in our civilization. What we have told you does not mean that we set belief in God against humanism. What we want to emphasize is that humanism

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should be open to transcendence. Such a humanism may be called religious humanism.17 It can be seen that the RSCU's response to the period of Nazi and communist rule has been to reconnect strongly with their founder's vision, which was, in essence, to offer a religious community that was not simply Christianity-light' but, instead, a coherent indigenous Czech Unitarian expression of faith consistent with, but not identical to, the region's earlier radical Christian tradition. Having said this it is important to note that the initial relationship with Christianity is often downplayed in the contemporary setting even when the continuity is affirmed. For example Ivana Fiserová (one of the RSCU's current members) is careful to insist that 'Czech Unitarianism was not based on Christianity in times of Capek and we have never considered ourselves to be Christians. Capek calls himself a logical/rational mystic.' She goes on to add, however - and thereby revealing the sense of continuity with the past that exists - that although the present RSCU does not selfidentify as a Christian church, they most certainly still consider themselves 'to be the heirs of persecuted Christians - [the] Moravian Brethren, as well as of [the] Czech Brethren'.18 But the collapse of the communist regime brought, not only new opportunities for them to reexplore their identity as Czechs and Unitarians, but also new and significant challenges to it. The rediscovery of their religious and cultural roots is also providing the RSCU with positive responses to these challenges. In the opinion of Fiserová one of the most pressing challenges has been the collapse of trust, not only in Czech society as a whole, but within the RSCU itself. This trust was destroyed in part by the lack of church attendance and 'partly destroyed by animosity and mistrust embedded into society by the horrors we experienced'.19 A second challenge has been the loss of a sense of the spiritual dimension of life. Travelling through Western Europe after 1989 Fiserová remembers being 'moved to tears' by this freedom and the sense that she belonged, at least potentially, to a 'global family'. But this was quickly coloured as she came to feel that 'our Euro-American culture' was problematically 'centred on our own prosperity'. Summing this up Fiserová believes that there is today 'an orientation to a material wellbeing to such an extent that people [have] mistaken it for real satisfaction and happiness. Living in freedom I am again experiencing a loss of one of the essential life dimensions: spirituality.' Fiserová feels that these two challenges can be particularly well met by a revived RSCU. She recalls that, as a child, it was within the RSCU that she had her 'most important spiritual and religious experience' (in the 17 Hill et al 2002,197-9. 18 Personal communication, June 2006.1 would like to express my thanks to Ivana Fiserová for her patience in carefully answering my many questions. The interpretation of those answers is, however, the author's own. 19 This and the following associated quotations from Ivana Fiserová are taken from an address delivered to the First Unitarian Congregation of Toronto, Canada on 4 January 2004. Available online at www.firstunitariantoronto.org

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Flower Communion Service) which she has carried with her 'as a model of the congregation which loves, provides a safe environment, cares, and enables its members to experience free spirit. Religion was truly lived in that community/ Her concern, as a Czech and a Unitarian, is to help bring about 'a rebirth' of the values she experienced as a young child 'in a loving and trusting church', a wish she desires, not only for her own immediate family, but for the RSCU as a whole and the wider contexts of the Czech Republic, Europe and, ultimately, globally. Although her response is rooted in the RSCU's own history and experience, it is not surprising she and other Czech Unitarians find many resonances with the thought of Vaclav Havel.20 D. The Flower Communion Capek realized soon after the founding of the RSCU that they needed a symbolic ritual which would help bind the Czech Unitarian community more closely together. The service he created combined the key themes and ideas this chapter has been exploring. He also realized, primarily because so many of his church's members had recently left the Roman Catholic Church (often because of its emphasis upon the atoning sacrifice of Christ upon the cross and its representation in the Mass), that he could not, in any simple and straightforward way, simply reuse traditional Christian symbols and services. For example, about the cross Capek said, Once it was the degrading instrument of execution, but it grew into an important symbol in the name of which millions of people underwent the greatest sacrifices. Unfortunately under the same symbol many people suffered terrible death. By that the symbol of the cross was polluted21and therefore it is no more the powerful symbol, as it once was. Another connected and problematic symbol for Capek was the communion chalice. Even though among the Hussites it was adopted as a symbol of communion22 and rebellion against the power of the Church, Capek felt it, too, had become 'misused and polluted' and, although at first the followers of John Huss formed 'an unusual brotherhood under the spell of that symbol, later the chalice was the sign of warriors and much human blood was shed'.23 Capek turned, therefore, to his own panentheistic Unitarian theology and love of the Czech countryside to create the Flower Communion Service which was first celebrated on 23 June 1923. This service captures in a distilled symbolic form the RSCU's 20 In an unpublished paper Fiserová says: '[The ideas] of V. Havel on the importance of discovering again respect for the order of being are dose to ideas of UnitarianismUniversalism that consider humans to be not the measure of all things but a part of an interdependent web of all existence that should be respected/ 21 Henry 1999,144. 22 See Thomas Fudge's Hussite Theology and the Law of God in Bagchi and Steinmetz 2004. 23 Henry 1999, 144.

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self-understanding as Czechs, as Unitarians, and as members of a wider, and ultimately global, community. Members were asked to bring a flower of their choice and, when they arrived at church, they were asked to place it in a large vase on a table in the centre of the church. This was understood as a symbol of each individual's free desire to join with others in community. The vase that contained the flowers was a symbol of the church community itself. There followed hymns, a reading of 1 Corinthians 13, a prayer of consecration, one of blessing and a sermon. At the close of the service each member was to leave with a different flower from the one they brought, taking it, as Capek said, 'just as it comes without making any distinction where it came from and whom it represents' as a public confession that they accepted 'each other as brothers and sisters without regard to class, race, or other distinction, acknowledging everybody as our friend who is a human and wants to be good'.24 And so the chalice, which had in Capek's eyes become sullied and betrayed by centuries of Christian violence and bloodshed, was transfigured into a vase as a symbol of loving and open community: For us in our Unitarian brotherhood the vase is our church organization. We need it to help us share the beauties but also the responsibilities of communal life. In the proper community by giving the best that is in us for the common good, we grow up and are able to do what no single person is able to do. Each of us needs to receive in order to grow up, but each of us needs to give something away for the same reason.25 It is no accident that the symbol for the RSCU's church in Prague (over the words, Veritas Vincit - truth prevails) is that of sunflowers turning towards the sun while being held together in a 'U', symbolizing both the vase/community and the name of their church building, Unitaria. We can see from this that the service's 'headline' themes are universal ones and are capable of being understood, at least in general terms, in different cultural contexts. But the real 'bite' of the service is only maintained when any non-Czech Unitarian community celebrating it carefully acknowledges the particularities of Capek's life and Czech history and then, just as carefully, ensures they relate it to the particular faith, life, experiences, suffering and hope of their own country and community. This is often done, but when it is not, the service quickly becomes a merely sentimental celebration of the beauty of nature and a rather naive and prosaic expression of the general desirability of 'just getting along with others'. Even when great care is taken, the service is so intimately linked with Capek's life and death, the particular sufferings of the RSCU and the Czech countryside and its history, that when it is transposed into other regional, historical and cultural contexts it is inevitable that something is always lost in the process. The more difficult 24 Henry 1999,144. 25 Henry 1999,145.

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and creative question is, what is gained in the process? It is not the place of this paper to answer this for non-Czech Unitarians but we can say that for the RSCU the service's worldwide adoption by other Unitarians has brought a great sense of pride and helped instil in them greater confidence in the universal value of their own distinctively Czech Unitarian tradition.

E. Concluding remarks So, how may (a study of) the RSCU's faith contribute usefully to current debates concerning the role of religion and the question of national identity in Europe as a whole? I offer the reader just five possibilities. First, Capek succeeded in founding a religious community that, while being intensely proud of and dependent on the particularities of Czech history, has always been cognizant of the desirability of developing ever wider and more pluralistic visions of community. The RSCU reveals that a strong local religious and cultural identity need not necessarily lead towards ever more narrow and exclusivist communities but can in fact provide a strong theological/philosophical underpinning for greater, transnational and, ultimately, transglobal identities. The RSCU has developed one practical and positive solution to the question of how one may be committed simultaneously to a single religious expression, a single country and to a wider community such as Europe. Second, their history reminds us that principles such as those of tolerance and freedom of speech, so valued in secular European politics and culture, were given birth and decisively shaped within religious contexts. Whenever principles are disconnected from the particular context in which they arose and come to be seen as freely floating and self-evident they quickly lose their effectiveness and can begin to be used by political groups with intolerant and coercive agendas.26 It is clear that, at present, European legislation concerning tolerance and freedom of speech is increasingly being used by minority religious/ political groups to impose upon wider society controversial views and practices which can actually run counter to the spirit of the legislation itself. The RSCU is one example of how a strong religious faith need not necessarily be a threat to so-called secular principles and values, but can in fact be a valuable partner in maintaining and promulgating them more widely. Third, because their theology holds that the whole of creation is an expression of the divine, the discoveries of all the sciences are also highly valued. I have not explored this in the chapter but it is important to know that Capek was himself passionately committed to scientific research and particularly interested in the psychology of religion.27 Fourth, the Unitarian emphasis upon the Unity of God potentially 26 See the interesting exploration of this subject in Fish 1999. 27 See Doláck 2000.

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offers a genuine and creative point of contact with Islam. Although the RSCU has not itself formally opened up such lines of communication with Muslims the fact that an indigenous European Unitarianism can be shown to exist may contribute towards helping Muslims see that European religious history is both amenable to their own faith and can be adopted as part of their own history of faith.28 Fifth, Capek's panentheistic Unitarian theology connects in many positive ways with contemporary secular European ecological and environmental concerns. It should be clear that Capek's theology is one which can theologically underpin and encourage a deeply responsible and careful attitude to the use and distribution of the region's natural resources.29 To conclude, I want to raise one last point and ask what seem to me to be a couple of important final questions. Obviously, religious belief and its role in the contemporary world is very much back on the political and social agenda. Much work needs to be done in understanding the role that large, highly visible and powerful manifestations of religion can and should have in secular Europe and how secular governments may best open up effective lines of communication with them. However, as this chapter suggests, the religion and spirituality of Europe has never been fully and exclusively expressed by these large groups. Governments clearly prefer to deal with religion in forms that it can easily categorize and which have clear institutional forms but, what they do not do well, is to engage in dialogue with small religious groups such as the RSCU. The perception of governments and the large established religious groups is often that such small groups are 'cranky' or 'esoteric' and have nothing useful to contribute positively to the development of a stable contemporary European cultural and political identity. In some cases, perhaps many, this is clearly true, but the story of the Unitarians in general, and the RSCU in particular, shows that the faith experience of a small religious community can result in the development of religiously rooted ideas and principles which go on to become important to many others beside themselves. Now to my final two groups of questions. First, who is to decide whether a religious group is to be considered legitimate and whether it should be categorized as belonging to Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist etc., traditions, or as some miscellaneous 'other'? The religious communities themselves or the secular state? Under what category does a group like the RSCU belong? Second, who decides (and how) whether a particular minority religious group is worthy of being listened to and its ideas taken into account in the debate over the future shaping of modern Europe? I do not propose to offer an answer to this complex and problematic question 28 In the British context Tim Winter (Abdul Hakim Murad) has written about how this can be the case in Britain (Winter 2003). A similar case can be made in countries such as Poland, Hungary, Romania and the Czech Republic where Unitarianism has flourished, and in some cases, still does. 29 There are clear connections possible with the 'Deep Ecology' movement initiated by the Norwegian philosopher Arne Naess. See Naess 1989.

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here, but what is clear is that if attempts are not made to listen to the quieter, smaller and often gentler religious voices of Europe then we all stand to lose what might be important and valuable insights, not only those concerning our shared past, but also those which can help us shape together a positive future that is both secular and religious, local and global.

Pope Benedict XVI, Europe and Interreligious Dialogue: A Theological Contribution Patrick Morrow The joke that when Joseph Ratzinger began his pontificate (19 April 2005) he went from being the pope's Rottweiler to the German Shepherd really told us something, at least about the jokers. Benedict XVI came to the papacy with 'form', like few predecessors. His reputation was as some combination of authoritarian, conservative, reactionary and fundamentalist. Withal, he was a controversialist, and many hoped these attributes might give way to a more pastoral, pontifical - bridge-building approach. This hope is not groundless. Consider his swift willingness to meet at some length with Lefebvrists (29 August 2005), and with Hans Küng (24 September 2005), who might represent Catholicism's conservative and liberal dissent, respectively. Witness also his popular appeal (his nationality notwithstanding) during his visit to Poland (May 2006). But the dominant mode of his pontificate has remained uncompromisingly controversial. Already we see that when we reflect on this pope, we are likely to find ourselves within Europe's horizon. As befits the pope who chose the name of one of united Europe's patron saints, Benedict regards Europe as an abiding and pressing theme. We might even say that the conviction that Europe has religious roots and these have contemporary relevance is something like an article of faith for him. And there is nothing abstract about this article. He has entered the political debate on the proposed European Constitution, arguing for an explicit reference to God1. Yet more controversially (though before his pontificate, and speaking in a personal capacity), he objected to Turkey's accession to the EU on the grounds that Turkey is a Muslim country, and Europe is not a geographical but a cultural concept, 'formed in a sometimes conflictual historical process centred upon the Christian faith' and 'a collection of secular states with Christian foundations'.2 And some would see this as of a piece with his almost instantly infamous lecture at the University of Regensburg, in which he cited 'the erudite Byzantine emperor Manuel II Paleologus' thus: 'Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new, and you will only find evil and inhuman things, such as his command to 1 Ratzinger 2005, 43f. 2 Ratzinger 2004b, cf. 2004e.

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spread the faith with the sword/3 In truth, Benedict soon disassociated himself from Paleologus' views,4 and his lecture had no substantive need for the reference. His main message, however, was hardly less dramatic: This inner rapprochement that took place between biblical faith and Greek philosophical thought is a decisive event ... it is not surprising that Christianity, despite its origins and some significant developments in the East, finally took on its decisive character in Europe. Conversely ... this encounter, with the subsequent addition of Roman heritage, created Europe and remains the foundation of what can rightly be called Europe.5 So Europe's religious roots are not irretrievably distant and diverse: Europe has been and in some senses remains Christendom. Naturally, the pope knows that most Christians today live outside Europe. But he sees Europe as Christianity's historic crucible, whose role is anything but complete. This argument is not naive: Benedict does not present Europe's past as defined by Christian homogeneity. Nor is it nostalgic; he calls today for faith and reason to 'come together in a new way'.6 Indeed, elsewhere, Benedict has stressed how important to Europe will be new 'creative minorities'.7 By no means will all these minorities be under ecclesiastical control: 'Perhaps the Church has forgotten that the tree of the Kingdom of God reaches beyond the branches of the visible Church, but that is precisely why it must be a hospitable place in whose branches many guests find solace.'8 If the pope is willing to learn from groups on and beyond the margins of the institutional Church - and to learn how not to use Islam crassly as his negative foil - it remains the case that overall his stance is guarded. For him such guardedness is necessary, prophetic even, given the onslaught from two related enemies of faith: ideological secularism and theological relativism. These are nowadays near-universal phenomena, but are creatures of the West, and most at home in Europe. Europe is the continent where secularity, in the form of people's dissociation from religious bodies and practices, is uniquely advanced. And over and above that, it is also the continent in which a secularist ideology has force, which presents public expressions of religion as intrinsically improper - improper, that is, even if they are popular (or as popular as other cultural phenomena which enjoy sympathetic portrayal). Benedict is convinced that such committed secularism is increasing in contemporary Europe. There is anecdotal (and much publicized) evidence to suggest he is right. If we take the UK as a case study, it may be that French laicisme is being implicitly exported. The row over the Muslim veil, the niqab, was illuminating, in that the government minister 3 4 5 6 7 8

Ratzinger 2006e, 10. Bertone 2006. Ratzinger 2006e, 11. Ratzinger 2006e, 12. Ratzinger and Pera 2006,120. Ratzinger and Pera 2006,121f.

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Jack Straw evidently saw no problem in combining two arguments, namely a positive one, on the advantages of face-to-face contact, and a negative one, against visible difference tout court9. If the latter is the heart of his objection, then the invisibility of religion from our common life is being proposed with startling literality. No less charged is the contemporary debate about faith schools. What opponents of faith schools often miss is that community schools are secular but not secularist: they themselves have a legal obligation to offer not only religious education but collective worship. The popular myth is that the latter is observed in the breach. But that is not true of community primary schools, which have been praised by Ofsted for the quality of this work. Similarly, recent controversies about hospital chaplains tended to present the NHS as a secularist body. In fact, the NHS Patients' Charter (for example) committed hospitals explicitly to providing for patients' spiritual care. In the UK it is becoming a commonplace to argue that for religious people to speak as religious people on public matters is to seek to impose their views on others. No evidence of intention to impose (rather than express an opinion among opinions) is considered necessary. The debates on euthanasia or assisted suicide are exemplary. Sutcliffe (2006) can stand for a whole genre of journalistic writing: Take the recent letter opposing Lord Joffe's new Bill on assisted dying for the terminally ill, a multi-faith epistle signed by nine religious leaders. 'Assisted suicide and euthanasia will radically change the social air we breathe by severely undermining respect for life,' it argued. But the signatories didn't really mean this. What they meant was that it might severely undermine respect for God by taking away his sole power of attorney in the matter. That nine religious leaders might sincerely contribute to 'the social air we breathe' by reflecting on the common good (based, for example, on Christian experiences of running hospices) is here not an argument worthy of consideration. Rather, since the nine are religious, their opinion must stem from esoteric notions of God. And so, by extension, it can happen that serious questions are raised about the appropriateness of appointing a Roman Catholic as Minister for Equality. Being an elected MP rather than a church representative did not immunize Ruth Kelly from this attack. This is not the place to discuss the relative merits of religious dress, religion in schools and hospitals, or euthanasia. Raising such issues serves only to show the way a certain pattern of rhetoric treats the irrelevance of religion to public life as its premise, not its conclusion. Religion (it is implied, though seldom spelled out as bluntly) is either private, or it is coercive. It is worth owning that, whatever the merits of this presumption, it is new. As and when Benedict takes issue with this, his objections should not be presented as intrinsically sinister, but be met by counter-arguments. The relationship between such ideological secularism and theologies 9 Straw 2006.

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which may be relativist or pluralist is complex. But for Benedict, this relationship is at the heart of the malaise which currently troubles Europe, and, via Europe, the world. For the pope, the properly theological problem of our days concerns the dialogue of religions. The previous generation had to deal (in one way or another) with liberation theology and its political edge. But politics itself has moved on. Need we be surprised that Benedict dates the turning-point precisely to 1989, the year of the death throes of communism in Eastern Europe? Since then, questions of diversity, tolerance and freedom have come to the fore.10 Against the understanding that religious diversity itself invalidates public theology, Benedict calls for a proper public theology of diversity. This chapter seeks to contribute to that discussion. As such, it is unapologetically a work of Christian theology, though from an Anglican critical friend, rather than a Roman Catholic. As unapologetically, it claims public relevance, relying not on any understanding of religious authority, but on what evidence, reason and consistency demand. The hypothesis to be tested has four parts: (1) In interfaith relations, Benedict XVI is neither a fundamentalist nor a reactionary. (2) In broad terms, it is more correct to call him an 'inclusivist' than an 'exclusivist' or a 'pluralist'. (3) It is fair to call him a conservative inclusivist, in that, while he has the highest hopes for other religious persons, his affirmations of other religions as such are within strict bounds. (4) There is nevertheless a tantalizing openness in his approach to Judaism in particular, the rationale and consequences of which have yet to be drawn out. If these four claims can be shown to be robust, then we can say that Benedict's commitments to interreligious dialogue and public theology will be pertinent, even to that most secular continent, Europe. (1) The pope is not a fundamentalist. Fundamentalism probably has as many definitions as it has liberal despisers. Two common charges are biblicism (often wrongly summarized as 'taking the Bible literally', as if such an approach could be followed consistently) and authoritarianism based on theocratic pretension. Benedict's biblical hermeneutic is sophisticated. He owns he has benefited from the historical-critical method of biblical study, and also has sympathy with canonical criticism (which treats the Bible as a whole as its datum, but not naively), for example when articulated by Protestant colleagues.11 Benedict has never argued for theocracy, and is in many ways a robust apologist for liberal democracy. The Second Vatican Council stressed human beings' inalienable right to religious freedom in Dignitatis Humanae (1965) and elsewhere. Benedict has insisted on the timely 10 Ratzinger 2004a, 116Í. 11 Ellingsen 2005.

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truthfulness of the Council.12 And these themes play no small part in Benedict's first encyclical, Deus Caritas Est (2006, §28): The State may not impose religion, yet it must guarantee religious freedom and harmony between the followers of different religions ... The Church's social teaching argues on the basis of reason and natural law, namely on the basis of what is in accord with the nature of every human being ... it is not the Church's responsibility to make this teaching prevail in political life. Rather, the Church wishes to help form consciences ... Indeed, Benedict's argument for a reference to God in the proposed European Constitution relates to his conviction that Christian teaching is the anchor of human rights. Specifically in the context of the European Constitution, he has spoken of the 'unconditionally' of human rights and human dignity.13 And here too he reiterates that the Church knows its place: its own contributions in any debates about society can be based only on what it claims is rational, not on any supposedly unassailable spiritual authority.14 On interfaith relations, the pope is not a reactionary, in the sense of one reacting against conciliar innovations. This charge was laid at his door most fiercely after the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith published Dominus lesus (2000). Ratzinger was the Congregation's Prefect, and subsequently defended the document. Perhaps the most damage was done to Catholic-Protestant relations, with the document's insistence (§17) that 'the ecclesial communities which have not preserved the valid Episcopate and the genuine and integral substance of the Eucharistie mystery, are not Churches in the proper sense'. This statement is harsher than anything in Vatican ITs Decree on Ecumenism (1964), though, as a judgement, it is not novel. But one sentence in particular challenged the goodwill of many working in interfaith relations (§22, emphasis original): If it is true that the followers of other religions can receive divine grace, it is also certain that objectively speaking they are in a gravely deficient situation in comparison with those who, in the Church, have the fullness of the means of salvation. One might contrast this with Vatican ITs Nostra Aetate's generous affirmation (1965, §2): The Catholic Church rejects nothing of what is true and holy in these religions. She has a high regard for the manner of life and conduct, the precepts and doctrines which, although differing in many ways from her own teaching, nevertheless often reflect a ray of that truth which enlightens all... 12 For a discussion of Ratzinger's role as Cardinal Frings' peritus at the Council, see Allen 2000, 51-6. 13 Ratzinger and Pera 2006, 74. 14 Ratzinger and Pera 2006, 74. He goes on to discuss start-of-life issues; this self-denying ordinance is thus not limited to the totems of the Left.

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But, in truth, this would be a doubly selective reading. That very affirmative sentence from Nostra Aetate is itself cited in Dominas lesus (§2). Also quoted (§12) is Gaudium et Spes, to the effect that 'we must hold that the Holy Spirit offers to all the possibility of being made partners, in a way known to God, in the paschal mystery'. And the spiritual gift is not made to disincarnate souls, as is clear from the document's recourse (§8) to the papal encyclical Redemptoris Missio (1990): God does not fail to make himself present in many ways, not only to individuals, but also to entire peoples through their spiritual riches, of which their religions are the main and essential expression even when they contain gaps, insufficiencies and errors. In sum, all persons - Christians and non-Christians - can find salvation; there is much that is true and holy in other religions; God is involved with persons and with their cultures and religions. Whatever we make of the harsher statements, they cannot be pressed into a hard literalist reading of the ancient slogan, 'outside the Church, no salvation'. Rather, Dominus lesus, like Nostra Aetate and its outworking, presents a dialectic: •

on the one hand, there is much that is good and holy and true in other faiths, and Christians can learn from them and be corrected by them, and their own adherents can enjoy salvation; • on the other hand, Catholic Christianity celebrates the fullness of truth and intimacy with God.

The descriptions of other religious groups as 'improper' and 'deficient' is unhelpfully undiplomatic. But is its essential message different from (say) the classical rabbinical idea of a dialectical relationship between the rudimentary Noahide and the rich Sinaitic covenants? There are striking parallels to Jonathan Sacks' chastening, on the publication of The Dignity of Difference (2002). In its first edition, he spoke suggestively of God's speech and revelation to others, via other religions; these claims were severely modified or removed for the paperback edition.15 While Sacks' Orthodox Jewish critics could affirm the idea of a universal covenant through Noah, they could not countenance any implication that religious phenomena outside Judaism were in any sense analogous or parallel to Torah. Surely a fair paraphrase might be: compared to Torah, other religious visions are gravely deficient. But in both cases, other religions are judged deficient only in comparison with what is held to be perfection. This charge need not be experienced as devastating. (2) It remains the case that Benedict feels free to pass judgement on other religions from the perspective of his own. Is this not in itself arrogant and exclusivist? The latter label relates to a threefold classification of 15 For example: 'Original: In the course of history, God has spoken to mankind in many languages: through Judaism to Jews, Christianity to Christians, Islam to Muslims. Revised: As Jews we believe that God has made a covenant with a singular people, but that does not exclude the possibility of other peoples, cultures and faiths finding their own relationship with God within the shared frame of the Noahide law' (Rocker 2003).

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positions as exclusivist or inclusivist or pluralist. This paradigm has often been criticized. Aloysius Pieris16 says it betrays 'the academic magisterium of the West7. On the other hand, his fellow Catholic, Perry Schmidt-Leukel - writing, we note, from a European perspective - holds that it is logically exhaustive. The nomenclature was developed and favoured by those who define themselves as pluralist, such as John Hick, for whom the order is intrinsic: pluralism is the climax, the solution. Writers use the terms differently, but a plausible presentation is: 'exclusivism' is the belief that one's own faith alone is true and salvific; 'inclusivism' asserts that one's own faith presents the fullness of truth and salvation, but others may have these goods partially and derivatively; 'pluralism' sees that a variety of faiths offer complementary truths and are all more-or-less equally salvific.17 At this level of generality, we hope to have shown that Benedict is an inclusivist. He does believe that other faiths contain much that is good and holy and can be a home to those who find salvation. Thus he is no exclusivist. He eschews the language of equality or parity or equivalence of faiths, or of parallel religions. Thus he is no pluralist. (3) Even if we may call Benedict an inclusivist, he is not a natural bedfellow of those who usually bear that label, even fellow Roman Catholics such as Karl Rahner or Jacques Dupuis. Indeed, we own that Benedict has expressly disassociated himself both from inclusivism and from the threefold categorization. He has criticized Rahner's methodology, and was involved in the controversial 'Notification' of Dupuis' views.18 Benedict is unimpressed by Rahner's classical inclusivist theory - that people of other faiths may be 'anonymous Christians' - because Rahner 'regarded the question concerning the salvation of the non-Christian as being really the only question ... In the face of the question concerning salvation, the distinction between one religion and another appears to be ultimately irrelevant.'19 For Benedict, 'a phenomenological investigation, which would not straightaway concern itself with Sie value of these religions for eternity ... needed to precede such theological judgments about other religions'.20 Consequently, he offers his own typology of humanity's religiosity. According to his schema, primitive experience and mythical religions develop into one of three options: mysticism; monotheism; enlightenment. This patterning may well have merit as a heuristic device, helping observers plot the diversity of the religious world. But it cannot be called a revolutionary challenge to other forms of categorization. And if it were simply true, it would be a refinement to 16 Pieris 1993,107. 17 We note that the language of salvation may be said to be a peculiarly Christian obsession. Here it is intended to stand for whatever good religions bring and celebrate. Alternatively, critics may treat the threefold paradigm as in-house Christian terminology. 18 Ratzinger 2004a, 52f.; Dupuis 1997. 19 Ratzinger 2004a, 17. 20 Ratzinger 2004a, 18.

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inclusivism, not its eclipse. In any event, Benedict fails to show that Rahnerian 'inclusivism' ever obliged one to treat all faiths as of identical salvific strength. On the contrary, Rahner's claims are always characteristically qualified: a non-Christian religion ... contains also supernatural elements arising out of ... grace ... For this reason a non-Christian religion can be recognized as a lawful religion (although only in different degrees)... Christianity does not simply confront the member of an extra-Christian religion as a mere non-Christian but as someone who can and must already be regarded in this or that respect as an anonymous Christian. 21 In truth, Benedict's own criticisms of Rahnerian inclusivism are undeveloped. More threatening to our purposes is the claim of other Roman Catholic thinkers, that inclusivism is too readily assumed to be post-conciliar Catholicism's perspective. A leading theologian of this critical persuasion is Gavin D'Costa.22 He presents what he acknowledges may be a minority report among Catholic thinkers dedicated to interreligious rapprochement. This is the view that the Council, and John Paul II, were able to affirm persons of religions other than Christianity, because of their theological anthropology. God loves all people, gave them their freedom, and will judge them according to how they respond to the promptings of their own consciences. These consciences are formed socially by instruments such as religions. But the affirmation also holds good to non-religious and even anti-religious persons of goodwill. This anthropological optimism can logically be expressed in negative terms, that is, as a re-expression of the older notion that non-culpable ignorance of Christian truth is no barrier to God's grace. For D'Costa it is crucially important that what is absent from the magisterium's treatment is any affirmation of religions as the loci of a transformative divine initiative. Admittedly, this absence can be obscured by circumspect phrasing. Our own example is that Nostra Aetate (§3) says that Muslims 'worship God, who is one ... who has also spoken to men', but nowhere does it affirm either the Qur'an or Muhammad; they are not even mentioned. D'Costa's survey shows that nowhere do the documents speak of revelation outside of biblical faith. Non-Christian religions bring blessings from God. But their ultimate role is purely preparatory for revealed Truth. We might add that Vatican terminology lends support to D'Costa's point: not by accident is the relevant body the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Relations. Benedict himself has noted that, following Aquinas, religion is a 'subdivision of the virtue of righteousness', whereas 'faith' is 'infused' by God's grace.23 So we infer that to affirm other 'religions' is unproblematic, as religious cultures will contain people blessed by their God-given seeking and sincerity; to affirm 21 Rahner 1966,121-31, emphasis orginal. 22 D'Costa 2000, 99-142. 23 Ratzinger 2004a, 50.

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another 'faith7 would risk suggesting a divine encounter/presence potentially as revelatory as that in Christ. It is an impressive cumulative case, but it may be just too tidy. D'Costa's refrain is that other religions cannot be salvific 'independently' or 'per se'24. But this is surely a straw doll. Even the Roman Catholic religion is not salvific per se; it can offer and celebrate salvation only by the grace of God, which remains mysterious and indivisible. No good thing in Catholicism is ultimately 'independent' of the blessings given to (say) pagan religion. Logically, one can dare to hope that other faiths bear revelation, without presuming that revelation is independent of revelation in Christ. Moreover, can D'Costa really account for that strand within the magisterial documents25 which teaches a confidence that grace is active not only in persons, but also in other cultures, and not least (though not only) in religions? A properly scrupulous analysis of the magisterium's thinking is beyond our scope. Perhaps it - or we - will need to find a new language to describe God's activity within the best of other religions. There seem to be two underlying convictions. First is that authentic communication from God is always communication of God; what God communicates is God's own will to intimacy. Second is that when God communicates, it is to concrete persons, in order to form a concrete people; intimacy in the abstract, or generalized throughout human history, is no intimacy. So if others know of God by the grace of God, then God must have spoken; if God speaks to make a people within history, then nothing else can match that speech. How to hold both of these in creative tension is as yet an unresolved problem. But we can dare to insist that to lose either half of this dialectic is to betray the Council. (4) We do not pretend to know that Benedict would endorse this summary dialectic. We have already noted good reasons to surmise he would find D'Costa's portrayal of contemporary Catholicism's caution vis-à-vis other religions laudatory. Yet we find there is some grit in this oyster. Post-conciliar Catholicism's insistence that Judaism is sui generis leaves open some questions. Benedict was responsible for the Pontifical Biblical Commission's publication of The Jewish People and their Sacred Scriptures in the Christian Bible (2001), a lamentably under-discussed work. He wrote its encouraging Preface, in which he cited from the substantive text (from §22): 'the Jewish reading of the Bible is a possible one, in continuity with the Jewish Scriptures of the Second Temple period, a reading analogous to the Christian reading, which developed in parallel fashion/ It adds that Christians can learn a great deal from a Jewish exegesis practised for more than 2000 years.

24 D'Costa 2000, 99ff. 25 from Redemptoris Missio to Dominus lesus.

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These are bold, new claims for the Catholic Church.26 Let us quote by way of contrast the 1974 Guidelines on Religious Relations with the Jews: The history of Judaism did not end with the destruction of Jerusalem, but rather went on to develop a religious tradition. And, although we believe that the importance and meaning of that tradition were deeply affected by the coming of Christ, it is still nonetheless rich in religious values. That language seems dated and coy, in the light of what has followed. It is important to clarify what is meant here by 'the Jewish reading'. This is not an assessment of the religion of the Old Testament, or the Judaism of Jesus' day. It can mean only classical rabbinical Judaism, a religion shaped long after the apostolic age, emerging at the same time as orthodox Christianity. It is the reading which comes to us as the Mishnah, Talmud and midrash, or (in rabbinical language) as the Oral Torah, which stands alongside the written Torah. Precisely this, both Benedict and the Biblical Commission insist, is in true continuity with the Hebrew Scriptures, in a way analogous to the New Testament and the Church Fathers (cf. §9). This is a most welcome claim and is likely to aid the rapprochement between the two faiths. But we can understand it only if we know the rationale behind it. It cannot be a phenomenological claim. Mishnah, Talmud and midrash are (severally) substantially different, both from the Hebrew Scriptures and from the writings of the Church Fathers. They have their own foci, purposes and originality - and styles and languages. As the Commission offers a work of serious scholarship, we need not waste time showing this. Neither is it a claim required by the presumption that the Jewish people might enjoy salvation. We have already noted that salvation can be found by any and every person following their own conscience and the promptings of the Spirit, however misguided their starting-point. And it is not even a claim logically required by the insistence (found in Nostra Aetate §4) that to the Jews belongs' the covenant, i.e. a present covenant, neither revoked nor revocable. Logically, it is quite possible (however inadvisable) to argue that God remains faithful to the people Israel, and though rabbinical Judaism is substantively misguided, and as such discontinuous with the revelation of the Hebrew Scriptures, it is not yet so utterly discontinuous that it cannot act as a 'holding bay', until the wave of the Spirit comes which will vivify the covenant anew and enable the Jews to recognize God's fidelity to them in a new way. In short, no explicit affirmation of rabbinical religion need follow intrinsically from the Christian insistence that the Hebrew Bible is and 26 A rival for the award of most fascinating novelty in the document - not itself penned by Benedict - would be the intriguing indirect phraseology of this statement of a common messianic hope (§21): 'Jewish messianic expectation is not in vain. It can become for us Christians a powerful stimulant to keep alive the eschatological dimension of our faith. Like them, we too live in expectation. The difference is that for us the One who is to come will have the traits of the Jesus who has already come and is already present and active among us/

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remains Scripture. This in itself does not place rabbinical Judaism in a unique category. Samaritans, non-rabbinical Jews (Karaites), Rastafarians, Mormons and others may also sincerely - in different ways - hold that this Scripture is Scripture, without hearing that the Church calls their interpretations 'possible7 and 'continuous' with the original in ways 'analogous' to its own grace-filled reading. The affirmation of Mishnah, Talmud and midrash in all their particularity, given by the Commission's text, and expressly welcomed by Benedict, must constitute a theological claim. There is here, we suggest, an implicit assessment that rabbinical religion has its own charism, its own special grace to read the Hebrew Bible. This charism is not ever said to be identical, equal or parallel to the grace given the Church. But it is nevertheless real. This can never be demonstrated phenomenologically. Rather it has been discerned by the testing of the spirits that has occurred within Jewish-Christian (and naturally in particular Jewish-Catholic) dialogue. While this is a circular argument (we discern it because we discern it), it is more robust that any other rationale which occurs to this critic.27 If this is correct, we are presented with a radical new methodology in urgent need of further analysis. It seems that the blessed realities of Jewish-Catholic dialogue themselves can give rise to a theological novum, which can change what Catholics say (even) about the reading of the Catholic Bible. This blessing is not in any sense immediately transferable to any other religion or interreligious dialogue. We remember that the Hebrew Bible is in every sense Scripture in a way that does not apply to other religions' holy books. We remember that Judaism is not one of the set of 'non-Christian religions', but has unique status. Nevertheless, it is not impossible that the methodology of the testing of the spirits will yield surprising fruit in other dialogues. Perhaps some of what the magisterium seems to declare with conviction about rabbinical religion it will come to hope with confidence about other religions. We note the plausibility of D'Costa's insistence that the Roman Catholic Church can see in 'non-Christian religion' only ever the honourable human seeking after divine truths, and never the transformative beingfound by the Truth. We find ourselves provoked to wonder whether this demarcation can survive the corrective of authentic dialogue. In conclusion, we have sought to offer nothing more than a sketch of some of the impulses of Benedict's thought on interreligious dialogue, such as can test our fourfold hypothesis. We hope to have shown that, on interfaith relations, Benedict is neither a fundamentalist, nor a reactionary, but is (inasmuch as the terminology has any validity) an inclusivist. He is, admittedly, a cautious, conservative inclusivist, who can affirm 27 A more cynical interpretation is that this reading stems from repressed guilt Since neither the magisterium in general nor Benedict in particular has owned that the Church as a whole (as opposed to a number of Catholic persons) was negligent in opposing Nazism, compensation is found in this uniquely sunny affirmation of rabbinical religion. This is possible. But can be it an exhaustive explanation? We hold that, in any event, Catholic-Jewish dialogue has offered something of substance.

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other religious persons readily, but who is slow to affirm other religions as such. The exception to this is the sibling religion of Catholic Christianity, rabbinical Judaism, and the reasons why this is an exception are under-discussed, in a way which leaves a door enigmatically open. This will be of little interest to those whose interpretive frame insists that any particular religious interpretation of religious diversity must be divisive and invalid, that is, to those who insist that 'inclusivism' must give way to 'pluralism', a neutral or generic interpretation of the religious whole. But it is possible to feel the attraction of that call to neutrality, and still conclude that it does not in fact exist. Any so-called pluralism which claims to offer a definitive interpretation of differing faiths will be contentious to precisely the degree that it claims to be definitive. Yet if it makes no claim to define the religions, it is revealed as nothing more than a well-meaning relativism. A 'pluralism' with real content is in no sense an advance on 'inclusivism'. While not seeking to present an argument based on 'guilt by association', we must add that it is the presumptions of ideological secularism that risk blinding us to this. That a 'Catholic' inclusivism is unacceptable, but an 'Enlightenment' inclusivism is welcome is in fact another premise, not a conclusion. This is not to demonize the Enlightenment, or its home continent of Europe. Nor need we fear that probably few of the newer branches which grow from Europe's religious roots will be religious themselves. Benedict XVI for his part may not be as flustered by this as we may imagine. His Regensburg lecture was not the first time he spoke of Europe as a creative synthesis of the religious and the secular. In his first encyclical, he quotes not only Virgil, but also Nietzsche (§§3f.). Yet the branches which are anti-religious should not seek to block all light out of the remaining religious ones. Benedict is passionate in his insistence that the Church should speak publicly about public matters, among which he names intrinsic human dignity, and a common human destiny in God. The claim that even to mention these things is to seek to 'impose' religion on others may actually betray a strategic neuroticism on the part of the complainant. It is possible to declare one's own faith 'true' and be no more arrogant or incapable of dialogue than any other person with some conviction to share. We should go on listening to Benedict XVI, as a complex thinker, whose speech is so much more interesting, and often more pertinent, than the repute of either his bark or his bite would suggest.

The Quarrel over the Religious Roots of European Identity in the European Constitution and the Nature of Historical Explanation: A Catholic Coign of Vantage Paul E. Kerry The quarrel over the exclusion of Christianity's contribution to Europe's heritage in the proposed European constitutional treaty sparked much debate and commentary. A reference to Christianity was absent from the initial draft of the preamble, which claimed that modern European civilization's values of freedom, equality of persons, reason, and the rule of law were derived from Europe's classical heritage and the Enlightenment. European governments and the late Pope John Paul II raised voices of dissent and argued that this represented an attempt by 'European intellectuals and European political leaders to airbrush fifteen hundred years of Christian history from Europe's political memory' and was tantamount to 'an exercise in self-afflicted amnesia'.1 Eventually, a compromise was reached and the preamble alluded to the Christian roots of Europe's identity in only a general way, as a part of the 'cultural, religious, and humanistic inheritance of Europe'.2 Pope John Paul II's views on Europe were pronounced in the encyclical letter, Ecclesia in Europa,3 which envisioned a 'civilizational renewal of Europe brought about by the Roman Catholic Church ... and the recovery of a profoundly multicultural historical memory7.4 In essence, from the Catholic coign of vantage, the dispute over the preamble was a dispute over Europe's history. Catholic thinkers who support this new chdlizing mission in Europe have articulated differing accounts of the development of modern European identity, which is typically constructed in professional histories as having emerged during the Enlightenment. This move harmonizes well with Katzenstein's consideration of 'multiple modernities' in Europe as 'a variety of mutating collective memories' with 'a never-ending reconstruction of religious traditions'.5 The aim here is to explore the historical claims of prominent Catholic 1 Weigel 2005, 55.

2 As quoted in Katzenstein 2006, 3. 3 2003.

4 Katzenstein 2006, 3. 5 Katzenstein 2006, 4.

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thinkers, in particular, Pope Benedict XVI, Pierre Manent and George Weigel. Each of the three offers counter readings to prevailing portrayals of European history, which they maintain is interpreted through the lens of the Enlightenment. An overarching theoretical argument about the philosophy of history is also put forward, namely, to analyse how certain Enlightenment philosophical assumptions have come to inhere in the modern practice of the historian's craft and why this necessitates a methodological rethinking when religion and faith are examined as a dynamic part of the historical process. George Weigel's incisive book, The Cube and the Cathedral,6 insists on a rereading of European history in ways that show cultural continuity from mediaeval times through the Enlightenment. Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, now Pope Benedict XVI, asserts the central role that Europe's Christian endowment has played in the formation of modern European identity. Cardinal Ratzinger delivered a lecture in Italy in 2004, 'The Spiritual Roots of Europe: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow', also entitled 'Europe and its Discontents', which was first published in Italy and then in English in the book Without Roots.7 Pierre Manent's The City of Man* situates the way in which European thought since the late seventeenth century has focused on the construction of humanity as the product of sociological and economic forces, thus displacing Christian ideas on the origins of human identity. Weigel deploys Joseph Weiler's (and Weigel notes that Weiler is an 'observant Jew') provocative definition that 'resistance to any acknowledgment of the Christian sources of Europe's democratic present is a form of Christophobia'.9 Benedict XVI posits something similar when he diagnoses Europe's 'self-hatred' as its refusal to confess to its Christian heritage.10 Weigel, in summarizing Weiler, explains this Christophobia in several ways, three of which rest specifically on how Europe's past is understood. First, there is a willed disbelief that the Revolution of 1989 was considerably influenced by Christianity, 'preeminently by Pope John Paul n but also by Lutherans in the old East Germany, Christian Czechs of various denominations, Romanian Baptists, and Catholics in Poland and Czechoslovakia, all working hand in hand with their secular fellow dissidents' and 'carried out against the embodiment of hypersecularism in modern politics - communism'.11 Second, the 1968 generation has remained intransigent by refusing to countenance the notion that the European Coal and Steel Community was a project largely inspired by

6 2005. 7 2006. The volume also contains contributions from Professor Marcello Pera, President of the Italian Senate until 2006. 8 Manent 1998; published originally in French in 1994. 9 Weigel 2005,19, 72. 10 Ratzinger 2006b, 78. 11 'Among religious communities, the Catholic Church most vigorously promoted democracy in the revolutions of 1989' (Philpott and Shah 2006, 41). Cf. George Weigel's The Final Revolution: The Resistance Church and the Collapse of Communism (1992).

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Christian Democrats.12 Third, Enlightenment versions of European history are taught to the detriment of the Christian contribution to European civilization.13 It is the latter assertion in particular that binds Benedict XVI, Manent and Weigel together in their critique of the neglect of the religious roots of European identity. The hypothesis of a monolithic Enlightenment, vigorously defended by earlier scholarship,14 has been overtaken by a geography of the Enlightenment15 that suggests that there were multiple Enlightenments in different national contexts.16 Therefore, the assumption of a single Enlightenment as contained in the initial preamble to the European constitution was faulty from the point of view of scholarship; however, there were more serious philosophical ramifications, according to José Casanova: Rather than recognizing the 'really existing' religious and secular pluralisms and the multiple European modernities, the dominant discourses in Europe prefer to hold on to the idea of a single secular modernity, emerging out of the Enlightenment. Only secular neutrality is supposed to guarantee liberal tolerance and pluralist multicultural recognition in an expanded European Union. Thus, the secularist paradox, that in the name of freedom, individual autonomy, tolerance, and cultural pluralism, religious people Christian, Jewish, and Muslim - are being asked to keep their religious beliefs, identities, and norms 'private' so that they do not disturb the project of a modern, secular, enlightened Europe.17 Casanova considers this 'secularist paradox' from the perspective of political philosophy. A further level of analysis detects how certain Enlightenment assumptions have led to the designation of key historical markers. The mode of historiography, that is the very way in which written European history is encoded, is to some degree the result of Enlightenment conclusions about Europe's past. The Thirty Years' War (or the Eighty Years' War if the Dutch Revolt is included) is described as a major turning-point in the triumph of politics over religion. Nations after all did not only forge alliances based on religion, but also according 12 'Catholic politicians have supported European political integration at every crucial stage. Adrian Hastings observed that "almost everyone who has been really influential in the creating of the EU has been a socially minded Catholic from Schuman and Adenauer to [Jacques] Delors and [Jacques] Santer" ' (Philpott and Shah 2006,52). They point out that these politicians could act with confidence, as Pope Pius Xu had in the 1950s advocated a 'European union' and a '"united Europe" to affirm its Christian foundations', largely as a bulwark against communism (ibid.). 13 Weigel 2005, 73-7. 14 Cf. Ernst Cassirer's The Philosophy of the Enlightenment (1979) and Peter Gay's two volumes on The Enlightenment (1966) and compare these to Jonathan I. Israel, Enlightenment Contested: Philosophy, Modernity, and the Emancipation of Man, 1670-1752 (2006). 15 Cf. David N. Livingstone and Charles Withers (eds), Geography and Enlightenment (1999). 16 Cf. Roy Porter and Martin Teich's The Enlightenment in National Context (1981) and Gertrude Himmelfarb's The Roads to Modernity (2005). 17 Casanova 2006, 66-7.

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to calculations of political gains. Thus, eighteenth-century histories, such as David Hume's History of England or Friedrich Schiller's Revolt of the Netherlands,18 although dilating on religious fanaticism and bigotry, also highlight the subordination of religious ideals to political aims, as well as the advent of nation states. Daniel Nexon perceives that the conclusion of the Thirty Years' War, the 'Westphalian moment' as it has come to be called, marks for many histories of Europe the nucleus of not only the nation-state system, but also the establishment of religious toleration in European identity. He contends that in fact religious rigidity within European states increased,19 not unlike Benedict XVTs contention that state churches forced waves of religious European out-migration.20 This suggests that the highly touted Peace of Westphalia (1648) must be reassessed as a historical marker if it is measured in terms of the rise of religious toleration within an increasingly statist Europe. Historical writing has tended to valorize Westphalia and marginalize the role of religion since the eighteenth century. Any assessment of religion and politics in Europe was based on the reductivist view that, for example, the Catholic Church was merely a diplomatic entity like any other state.21 Only recently, with the work of Timothy Byrnes, has a more comprehensive view of the Church as a transnational entity been introduced into scholarship.22 Many Enlightenment histories were informed by a particular theoretical view: historia universalis, or, as practised in Germany, Universalhistorie (August Ludwig von Schlözer) and in France histoire universelle (Jean Bodin). The problem with this theory, as noted by later philosophers of history, is that of teleology or of seeing the present as the proper end, the positive fulfilment of all that had come before.23 Teleology leading to the fallacy of presentism - judging the past by the present - is one of the most insidious problems of Enlightenment historical thinking. When the religious heritage, and specifically the Christian contribution to modern European identity, was left out of the original preamble to the European constitutional treaties, what remained was an uncontested secular teleological view of European history along the lines of Voltaire, who vociferously observed that Christianity was superstition, a barrier to progress, and that the future would see the rise of natural and the demise of organized religion.24 According to Benedict XVI a new European identity did emerge, that of the laid or secular 18 The histories were published in 1778 and 1788 respectively. 19 Nexon 2006, 277-8. 20 Ratzinger 2006c, 110. 21 Hehir 2006, 93. Although the Church was never fully ignored in diplomatic histories, Hehir discusses how it was fundamentally misunderstood precisely because it could not be reduced to a nation state. 22 Byrnes 2000. Hehir explains how the earlier work of Ivan Vallier (1971) and Samuel Huntington (1973) first considered the Church as a transnational actor, but in limited ways only: Hehir 2006, 94-5. 23 Cf. A. M. Melzer and J. Weinberger et al (eds), History and the Idea of Progress (1995). 24 Voltaire is particularly biting in the 'Sermon of the fifty' (1994).

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people.25 Pierre Manent adumbrates how Hobbes and Locke relocated the authority of law and precipitated this development. Hobbes posited that the authority of law was based in the authority of the sovereign, not in the truth of law, since the nature of the sovereign as with the nature of man was to seek power; Locke then extended this political argument and reasoned that man created his own laws, not in accord with moral notions which for him were arbitrary, but in line with his own 'convenience'26 or self-interest. Accepting that the Enlightenment is the major engine of Europe's commitment to human rights (surely it drew attention to a host of repressive practices) can lead to a form of philosophical and historical myopia, given Manent's logic, as the basis for those rights is founded on 'convenience'.27 Benedict XVI points out that although the idea of Europe is a classical one, it was given a new life in the institution of the 'Sacrum Imperium Romanum' or Holy Roman Empire. The start of Europe's modern age is located in the Carolingian Empire and Byzantium or in other words Gaul, Germania, Britannia and Scandinavia as well as the Slavic lands. After the passing of the Carolingian epoch, he notes that the 'concept of Europe virtually disappeared' and although the Habsburgs would lay claim to the crown of the Holy Roman Empire, it was not until the eighteenth century that the term 'Europe' would become 'popular currency ... as a means of self-identification, in response to the Turkish threat'.28 Benedict XVI observes with perspicacity that the French Revolution, and one should add the Napoleonic terror, brought about a formal end to the Holy Roman Empire which had sustained the idea of a transnational Europe to that point; thus it was the end of 'a valid ... interpretation of history'.29 This is the historiographie crux of the matter: the preamble to the European constitutional treaty represented not only a debate about whether and if modern constitutions 'need transcendent references',30 but about how history itself is interpreted. The development of the idea of history in the nineteenth century as approaching an empirical science with a methodology largely developed by Leopold von Ranke and the so-called Prussian school - and it should be readily acknowledged that modern history in the United States, Great Britain and on the Continent would be unthinkable without these methods (such as Quellenforschung or researching the primary sources) - has been called into question in the late twentieth century.31 Nineteenth-century states found it convenient to allow historians, who of course were dependent on the archives of the state in moulding their political histories, to fashion master narratives, 25 Ratzinger 2006c, 115. 26 Manent 1998,119-21. 27 Critics of the Enlightenment have argued that Enlightenment ideology culminated in the system of Auschwitz (Adorno and Horkheimer 1991). 28 Ratzinger 2006b, 54-5. 29 Ratzinger 2006b, 62. 30 Casanova 2006, 80. 31 Cf. Georg Iggers, Historiography in the Twentieth Century (1997) and Elizabeth Clark, History, Theory, Text (2004).

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even myths,32 on which modern states could model their self-identities and inculcate citizenship.33 Indeed, for an increasing number of historians who were unsure about traditional religious beliefs, history itself could be viewed as the manifestation of the divine idea, as a 'real Prophetic Manuscript',34 making historians in the famous words of Friedrich Schlegel, 'a prophet facing backwards' ('Der Historiker ist ein rückwärts gekehrter Prophet').35 The Enlightenment notion of teleology could result in unrelenting selfjustification as history became harnessed to nationalist states. In Prussia, for example, the ideological combination of God, the state and power was particularly virulent and could be abused easily.36 This kind of thinking would prove fertile ground for later secular, teleological conceptions of the state, including fascist and communist dictatorships. 'The secular state arose for the first time in history,' avers Benedict XVI, 'abandoning and excluding as mythological any divine guarantee or legitimation of the political element', rather the secular state was 'grounded in rationalism and the will of the citizens'.37 This is the logical conclusion of Locke's philosophical reworking of Hobbes, as Manent proffers in The City of Man. Although the Catholic Church had opposed this 'sovereign-state system' as antithetical to its transnational ideal, it came 'to allow the sovereign state as legitimate in principle' although insisting 'upon [the state's] accountability to a larger moral order'.38 It is precisely the Church's transnational existence which continues to make it a decisive supporter for European integration,39 as Philpott and Shah explain: The historical experience of the Catholic Church led it to consider some form of political confederation necessary and appropriate for Europe: it believed the recent calamities of two world wars and ongoing calamity of totalitarianism made such a confederation 32 Cf. Patrick Geary, The Myth of Nations (2002) and Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, The Invention of Tradition (1992). 33 Cf. Thomas Babington Macaulay, Jules Michelet, Johann Gustav Droysen, George Bancroft Also see Donald Kelley's Fortunes of History: Historical Inquiry from Herder to Huizinga (2003). 34 Carlyle 2002, 8. 35 Athenaeum Fragment 80: Philosophical Fragments (1991). 36 Craig 1978,189-95. 37 Ratzinger 2006b, 62. 38 Philpott and Shah 2006, 36. 39 Byrnes believes that one reason for the Catholic Church's support for European integration is that it offers the Church an opportunity to evangelize Europe, most recently through Poland's accession, and recreate Europe in its own image (Byrnes 2006, 304). Philpott and Shah, drawing on Weigel, advance a different reason for this support, although it does not necessarily negate Byrnes' view: 'Catholicism's ecclesiology of visible transnational unity under a centralized hierarchy predisposes it to favor (or at least not be instinctively opposed to) federal and confederal political projects that transcend national boundaries' ('Faith, freedom, and federation', 2006:60). Benedict XVI urges: 'We must... reverse the axiom of the Enlightenment and say: Even the one who does not succeed in finding the path to accepting the existence of God ought nevertheless to try to live and to direct his life veluti si Deus daretur, as if God did indeed exist' (Ratzinger 2006d, 51).

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urgently necessary, while its historical contributions to the continent's unification, civilization, and organization as a Respublica Christiana helped make it thinkable and realizable.40 The model of a 'culture-driven view of history7 that Weigel propounds against that of a state-driven view of history, he derives from Christopher Dawson.41 Dawson, a Catholic convert and English historian who later took up a chair at Harvard University, determined that the monastic tradition preserved much of classical culture, and that the achievements of the Carolingians should not be underestimated, something that scholars continue to argue (pace Rosamund McKitterick).42 Indeed, for Benedict XVI monasticism was a salient factor in the cultural continuity of European history, something that is all too easily overlooked in accounts of history that share Enlightenment assumptions.43 Of monasticism, he writes that 'throughout the great upheavals of history [it] has continued to be the indispensable bearer not only of cultural continuity but above all of fundamental religious and moral values, the ultimate guidance of humankind. As a pre-political and supra-political force, monasticism was also the harbinger of ever welcome and necessary rebirths of culture and civilization/44 It is therefore not surprising that Benedict XVTs model for the spiritual renewal of Europe is drawn from the European monastic tradition. He holds up Benedict of Nursia who, 'in an age of dissipation and decadence', sought purification and from Monte Cassino 'assembled the forces from which a new world was formed'.45 For Benedict XVI, George Weigel and Pierre Manent the stakes are as high as life itself. Jean Bethke Elshtain summarizes Manent's book as throwing into relief the tautological predicament of modernity as an impossible act of ' "giving birth" to ourselves'.46 The initial draft of the European Union's preamble, according to the Catholic positions outlined here, was just such a hubristic attempt. The title of Benedict XVI's book, Without Roots, aside from being a biblical allusion,47 is also a metaphor of

40 Philpott and Shah 2006, 60. 41 Weigel 2005, 32. 42 Weigel buttresses Dawson's interpretations with the more recent scholarship of Peter Brown's The Rise of Western Christendom (Weigel 2005,190). 43 Goethe's final novel, Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre (Wilhelm Meister's Journeyman Years) (1991) features a scene that embodies an Enlightenment reading of the Catholic contribution to European civilization: a ruined chapel on the grounds of an abandoned monastery that is now inhabited by a rustic family. There is some artwork discernible on the walls of the chapel and the narrator comments on the wholesome life of Joseph and his widowed wife, Marie, and her child. The humanization of the Holy Family and secularized monastery outline symbolically a kind of Enlightenment mat wants to demythologize religion yet preserve its aesthetic and ethical contributions. 44 Ratzinger 2006b, 55-6. 45 Ratzinger 2006d, 52-3. 46 Manent 1998, xi. 47 Tor, behold, the day cometh, that shall burn as an oven; and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly, shall be stubble: and the day that cometh shall bum them up, saith the Lord of hosts, that it shall leave them neither root nor branch' (Malachi 4.1).

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Europe's futile efforts to grow into a new entity, but by the self-hating act of cutting off its own roots: The failure to mention Christian roots is not the expression of a superior tolerance that respects all cultures in the same way and chooses not to accord privileges to any one of them. Rather, it expresses the absolutization of a way of thinking and living that is radically opposed (inter alia) to all the other historical cultures of humanity ... the refusal to refer to God in the Constitution is not the expression of a tolerance that wishes to protect the non-theistic religions and the dignity of atheists and agnostics; rather, it is the expression of a consciousness that would like to see God eradicated once and for all from the public life of humanity and shut up in the subjective sphere of cultural residues from the past. In this way, relativism, which is the starting point of the whole process, becomes a dogmatism that believes itself in possession of the definitive knowledge of human reason, with the right to consider everything else merely as a stage in human history that is basically obsolete and deserves to be relativized. In reality, this means that we have need of roots if we are to survive and that we must not lose sight of God if we do not want human dignity to disappear.48 To carry on with the Pope's metaphor, Europe's rhizotomy, or cutting off its spinal nerve roots, might have another explanation. Such radical surgical incising of sensory roots is performed to stop pain. The legacy of Europe's fratricidal religious wars and persecutions left coUective emotional scars such that Enlightenment thinkers sought to find ways to eliminate future distress. The pain has been great, but the application of this remedy, if that is indeed how it is held to be, has damaged Europe even more, as Weigel propounds. The 'cube' in the title of The Cube and the Cathedral refers to the Parisian La Grande Arche de la Défense. It is a modernist structure of an enormous open cube made of glass and marble and the emptiness at the centre becomes a metaphor for the twentieth-century culture that erected it: 'Why did a century that began with confident predictions about a 48 Ratzinger 2006d, 43-5. Casanova sees not only a lost opportunity for European reconciliation, but also the absurdity of following the secularist position to its logical conclusion which would ultimately call for its own dissolution: 'the inability to openly recognize Christianity as one of the constitutive components of European cultural and political identity means that a great historical opportunity may be missed to add yet a third important historical reconciliation to the already achieved reconciliation between Protestants and Catholics and between warring European nation-states, by putting an end to the old battles over Enlightenment, religion, and secularism. The perceived threat to secular identities and the biased overreaction to exclude any public reference to Christianity belies the self-serving secularist claims that only secular neutrality can guarantee individual freedoms and cultural pluralism. What the imposed silence signifies is not only the attempt to erase Christianity or any other religion from the public collective memory, but also the exclusion from the public sphere of a central component of the personal identity of many Europeans. To guarantee equal access to the European public sphere and undistorted communication, the European Union would need to become not only post-Christian, but also post-secular' (Casanova 2006, 82).

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maturing humanity reaching new heights of civilizational accomplishment produce in Europe, within four decades, two world wars, three totalitarian systems, a Cold War threatening global catastrophe, oceans of blood, mountains of corpses, Auschwitz and the Gulag?749 This 'rage of self-mutilation7 is being matched or surpassed, according to Weigel, by Europe's 'demographic suicide7.50 Benedict XVI raises questions along these lines about Europe's 'lack of desire for the future7, as indicated by the precipitous decline in the birth rate.51 Yet, the Pope sees an opportunity for suture amidst the rupture and recalls that the Second Vatican Council restated the 'profound harmony between Christianity and the Enlightenment7.52 Weigel outlines in what ways Christianity has informed the Enlightenment. He suggests, for example, a rereading of the investiture controversy between Gregory VII and the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry IV. This is usually assessed as a blow to the development of the state as a separate authority to the Church, but Weigel opines that this controversy would give rise to 'institutional pluralism7 and the 'Western ideal - a limited state in a free society7 because the state 'would not occupy every inch of social space. Indeed, the state had to acknowledge that there were some things it couldn't do because it was simply incompetent to do them.753 The Church continues to hold to the standard that 'temporal and spiritual authority ought to reside in separate hands7.54 Weigel postulates that the 'Christian idea of vocation ... is one root of the Western idea of individualism7, another major modern attribute normally claimed by the Enlightenment. He further maintains that history itself was given meaning by eschatological thought, thus elevating history from the status of mere chronology.55 The Enlightenment commitment to reason, he continues, echoed Aquinas and Augustine; mediaeval scholasticism's logic prepared the ground for modern science. The rule of law and 'the principle of consent in governance find their deepest roots, not in Enlightenment political theorizing but in ideas, ideals, and moral commitments first nurtured in European Christian culture7.56 The Second Vatican Council produced Dignitatis Humanae,57 reaffirming the Church's commitment to human rights and religious freedom.58 Christopher Dawson argued similarly: 'the whole development of liberalism and humanitarianism, which has been of such immense importance in the history of the modern world, derived its spiritual

49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

Weigel 2005, 23. Weigel 2005, 41-2. Ratzinger 2006b, 66. Ratzinger 2006d, 48. Weigel 2005,101. Philpott and Shah 2006, 36. Weigel 2005,102-3. Weigel 2005,103-5. 1965. Philpott and Shah 2006, 38.

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impetus from the Christian tradition that it attempted to replace'.59 These examples illuminate Christianity's contribution to European civilization and, in asserting its historic role as the catalyst to some of the Enlightenment's most valued achievements, make Christianity rhizogenic, a productive part of the root system of modern European identity.60 Despite the foregoing, there remains a fundamental tension between Catholic and Enlightenment claims insofar as Benedict XVI has defined the central philosophical tenets of the latter: What the whole Enlightenment has in common is the desire for emancipation, first of all in the sense of Kant's sapere aude - dare to use your reason for yourself. It is a matter of the individual reason breaking free of the constraints of authority, which should in every case be subjected to critical examination. Only what can be rationally comprehended should be allowed to continue. This philosophical program is of its nature also a political program: reason alone should rule; there should ultimately be no authority other than reason.61 Certainly the issue is not about reason, as reason and faith are not mutually exclusive in Catholicism, much rather they require each other.62 The major Enlightenment postulate as the Pope describes it, namely, that reason is in the end the sole authority, is problematical and makes the act of engaging in historical narratives about Europe's past particularly complex for Christians. Historical narratives demand a model of human nature, for without it modern judgements about the past would be more spurious than they already are accused of being.63 The unstated but virtually omnipresent model of human motivation that is assumed in most historical narratives is that of the so-called 'rational actor7. The mindset that historians impose on those of the past, with some cultural adjustments, is an individual who is motivated by 'rational choice' and 'self-interest', in other words one who can be mapped by the Enlightenment's science of man. One result of the Enlightenment project, the 'two swords' metaphor of Pope Gelasius I notwithstanding,64 was the formation of a public sphere, a so-called civic neutral zone in which at the very least dialogue between opposing sides might be held; nevertheless, the parameters of philosophical

59 Dawson 2002, 424. 60 Cf. Wright 2007, 29-39. Melanie Wright's original conference presentation spurred my thinking along rhizogenic lines. 61 Ratzinger 2004a, 237. 62 Cf. Fides et Ratio, Pope John Paul ITs Encyclical Letter of 15 September 1998. 63 Cf. Hayden White, Metahistory (1973) and Keith Jenkins, Re-thinking History (2003). 64 Cf. Philpott and Shah 2006, 36.

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conversational discourse65 were largely designed, by Kant and others, to avoid appeals to faith66 and those rules continue today.67 Modern history was born in this intellectual milieu and Enlightenment suppositions continue to inform historical constructions. One difficulty in the conception over Europe's past, as refracted through the discussions on the European constitutional preamble, has been the explanation for human motivation in the past (and present). As the historian Ludmilla Jordanova has lamented: 'it remains a sad fact about the discipline [of history] that crudely reductive assumptions about the primacy of self-interest, in human nature and historical explanation, continue to be produced'.68 One way forward, at least from the perspective of historiography, is to challenge simplistic models of human motivation in historical narratives about Europe. Just as the European experience includes multiple modernities, multiple Enlightenments and multiple religions, there are multiple human motivations and aspirations. Not only the Roman Catholic Church, but all who claim that Europe's religious identities are relevant to the past, present and future, can consider models of human nature that account for both faith and reason.69 This recognition of the varieties of motivations of historical subjects will allow for richer, more thoughtful dialogue between those discussing the religious roots of contemporary European identity.

65 Cf. Adolph Freiherr von Knigge, Practical Philosophy of Social Life or the Art of Conversing with Men (1805) and Bellegarde, Modèles de conversations pour les personnes polies (1702). 66 Benedict XVI sees it much the same way: 'Kant had denied that God could be known within the sphere of pure reason, but at the same time, he had presented God, freedom, and immortality as postulates of practical reason, without which he saw no possibility of acting in a moral manner7 (Ratzinger 2005, 51). 67 Robert P. George concedes: 'Appeals to religious authority have their place. That place is plainly not, however, in philosophical debates' (George 2001,63). Casanova understands this point exactly and here he comments on the curious position of Jürgen Habermas (whom he accuses of 'holding a teleological philosophy of history'): Habermas 'still implies that religious believers must naturally continue to suffer disabilities in the secular public sphere: To date, only citizens committed to religious beliefs are required to split up their identities, as it were, into their public and private elements. They are the ones who have to translate their religious beliefs into a secular language before their arguments have any chance of gaining majority support' (Casanova 2006, 92). 68 Jordanova 2006, 99. 69 Cf. Joseph Soloveitchik's Halakhic Man (1991) and The Lonely Man of Faith (1992).

Towards the Philosophy of Interreligious Dialogue Stanislaw Krajewski Dialogue among religions has become an important ingredient of European (and North American) culture and identity. The dialogue is a reality, with its political ups and downs, and it is even more a postulate - accepted widely, though by no means universally. It seems that most of the European Catholic, Protestant and Jewish leaders, together with their rank-and-file co-religionists, treat the interreligious dialogue as an obligation, even though it is much less frequently regarded as a priority. The fundamental acceptance of dialogue is not comparably widespread among Orthodox Christians and Muslims, but in the framework of these religions there also exist liberal, dialogue-oriented activists. Such a positive attitude to dialogue is quite recent. In fact, the same is true for intra-Christian ecumenical dialogue, which is largely a post-Second World War development. Social changes in Europe, the decline of the influence of religion on people's everyday lives, and the war itself especially the shock resulting from the realization of the size and nature of the Shoah, carried out in the heart of Europe - are among the reasons for the new attitude to interreligious dialogue. These factors are also seen by some as demonstrating the insignificance of dialogue (according to this view, religions have become weak, they are subject to new questions and challenges, and hence are less arrogant than previously), but I disagree. Whatever the reasons for the serious interreligious encounters of today, a new reality has been created that should not be underestimated. Religions, after all, are not that weak, and many of the concepts, prejudgements and 'obvious' truths common to contemporary Westerners have religious origins. In the past few decades interreligious dialogue has been analysed by various authors, theologians, historians, philosophers. Yet, so far, no comprehensive philosophy of interreligious dialogue has been proposed. The first chapter of such an enquiry must address the problem of the nature of basic concepts, such as religion and dialogue, and must consider the relationship of the philosophy of interreligious dialogue to other well-developed domains, namely the philosophy of religion and the philosophy of dialogue (in the strict, 'Buberian' sense of the term). The next questions would be the following: Who is the participant in the interreligious dialogue? What are the goals of this dialogue? These two questions are addressed below. They not only serve as a pretext for a conceptual analysis but are considered in the light of the experience of 179

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interreligious dialogue, and in particular its Christian-Jewish variety. For me, participation in dialogue is the most important motivation to theoretical consideration or reflection. Some of the examples given below derive from my involvement in Christian-Jewish dialogue in Poland and elsewhere. Deep interreligious dialogue, and perhaps especially that between Christians and Jews, is an amazing development of the last decades. It touches - however rarely and momentarily - a dimension that goes beyond the diplomatic acknowledgement of the other religion, beyond the readiness to learn about it, beyond 'political correctness7, beyond the will to tolerate the fact of religious pluralism. When this dimension is entered a genuine, absolute respect for the other prevails. In those moments, the other religion is no longer seen as enemy, opponent, competitor, object of study, or even partner; it is treated as a Thou, as the other who deserves complete approval, unqualified acceptance, and, to use Abraham Joshua Heschel's term, 'reverence'.1 Of course this picture involves an idealization; deep dialogue cannot be the only element in what are necessarily multi-faceted real-life encounters. The unconditional acceptance of the partner is also fleeting, since the other aspects of dialogue inevitably appear and grasp attention, be it the memory of the burdens of history, so heavy in the case of Christian-Jewish relations, or theological disparities, or the dissimilarity of social situations of the dialogue partners. And no genuine proponent of the new dialogue wants to disregard the differences, contradictions and tensions that have been present for so long, especially in Europe. What is new and must be taken into account in any theory of contemporary interreligious dialogue is, however, the special approach, the attitude of reverence, which is an expression of a new vision of interfaith relations. Deep dialogue has been experienced by a limited number of religious individuals, but its impact may be more broadly felt. Due to this experience, it becomes conceivable that the philosophy of interreligious dialogue will not be limited to analysis and criticism of the dialogue and its preconditions, but it will grow into a philosophy inspired by interreligious dialogue, a philosophical view of individual human beings, of mankind, of society informed by that experience, and worth it. And even more broadly, religious identities formed under the influence of such a dialogue can provide a counterbalance to religion's traditional role as a 'conflict enhancer'. In Europe many people believe that only a weakening of religion can reduce religiously based conflicts. Yet practitioners of deep dialogue stress that it weakens conflicts and, at the same time, supports religious involvement. Contrary to religious opponents who fear syncretism or theological compromise, it has a constructive and edifying influence on one's religious identity.

1 Heschel 1991,11.

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A. Is interreligious dialogue a dialogue of religions? Dialogue takes place between individuals. This is the self-evident, basic point of departure; if this were denied, the term 'dialogue' would be distorted, and the concept unclear. And yet we do use the term 'dialogue' to refer to situations involving entities other than individual human beings. We talk about the dialogue between government and partisans, between two countries, even two cultures, and, yes, religions. Of course, the encounter is only possible between persons, directly or indirectly addressing each other, but in the case of a supra-individual dialogue both participants have reasons to believe that the other represents a larger entity, a group or institution. The entity can have a clear structure, like a government, or a loose character, like a protest movement or 'culture'. It will always be a group of people linked, more or less formally, by some bond - a situation, interest, biological, social or cultural commonality. In every case an individual human being must represent the whole. And, obviously, nobody is ever only a representative. In actual encounter not only one's essential attributes (one's role in the group, one's knowledge of its history or nature, and the degree of representativity) but also one's other social roles and personal traits are part of the dialogue. In an interreligious dialogue, who is the participant? Of course, as we have noted, they are individual human beings, treated as representatives of religions. Let us ask, what are they actually representing? Well, religions. But this response in itself requires a definition of religion. Thus the proponents of the philosophy of interreligious dialogue inherit the principal problem of the philosophy of religion, and this puts us in a rather hopeless position. Despite numerous attempts no generally accepted definition of religion has been proposed; to formulate some définition ad hoc would make little sense. So what is to be done? One way out of the problem is to say that what we mean is not the interreligious dialogue in general but only dialogue between several 'great' religions, say, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism. This seems pretty convenient but immediately other serious candidates come to mind: Shinto, Sikhism, Jainism, Bahai, Mormonism: the list soon becomes rather arbitrary. Let us notice that even when a list is established the fundamental problem remains: who is the dialogue participant? Of what is he or she a representative? We have agreed that they represent their religions. However, what are religions? Here the problem is not how to define religions but how to characterize what, in this context, is meant by a religion, what sort of entity is actually represented in dialogue. Is it enough to say that what is meant is a group of people, the totality of a religion's believers? For every religion the set of its adherents constitutes a vitally important aspect. Who, however, can be seen as their appropriate representative? There is no universally valid answer. In the Roman Catholic Church, the pope, or someone authorized by him, would be the best representative. In many other churches, let alone in Judaism or Islam, there is no counterpart to the pope, as there is no hierarchy. Everywhere there are authoritative individuals and bodies,

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but quite often they disagree on various religious issues, so any process of authorization can lead to conflicts. And, nevertheless, it is quite clear that this reality must not prevent dialogue. As a matter of fact, even the existence of uncontested leadership does not solve the problem: if a Catholic is not authorized by the pope, even indirectly, is she unfit for participation in dialogue? Clearly, to assume this would be too limiting and destructive. Only when binding decisions are to be taken is authorization necessary, for example if the aim is to regulate the status of Catholic sites in Jerusalem. In such cases the meeting is about politics or business. The problem of determining whether someone has the authorization to represent a religion's leadership assumes that religion is an institution. Religions are (among other things) institutions, but in dialogue one can have a role other tifian representing the institution. The institutional aspect can be essential, but identifications of dialogue participants can be very far removed from it. After all, what is usually meant by religious dialogue is not a dialogue of institutions. In Christian-Jewish dialogue there can be even more misunderstandings than in that between Catholics and Protestants. The term 'interreligious dialogue' suggests that the more religiously conscious one is, the more one is fit for dialogue. Yet Judaism is a religion in a somewhat different sense than Christianity. While the individuals representing Christianity are Christians, those representing Judaism are Jews, not Judaists or Judaeans, as some Christians try to suggest. There are non-religious Jews, and they are as Jewish as the rest. And being nonreligious is not a simple, unproblematic description. As Lévinas said, the distinction between being religious and being non-religious is not parallel to that of being a pharmacist or not. Traditions can be complex. All Jews are fundamentally on the same plane. (I disregard here exceptions, like the role of the rebbe in Hassidism.) Jews participating in dialogue should be knowledgeable, but even non-religious Jews qualify. This is rarely accepted by Christians, who typically prefer to deal with rabbis. Jews often feel unable to explain that even very respected rabbis are employed by the community, so the hierarchy is in some sense reversed with respect to Catholicism. (This example is relevant for Poland and Diaspora communities; in Israel matters look different: there are rabbis employed by the state, but there are also other ones ignoring the state.) Actually, the problem is still deeper. In Judaism religion and peoplehood are intertwined, so that the Church's partner is not the Synagogue but Jews, or Jewish people. There have been many attempts to reduce the Jewish presence to one sociological category. No simplified solution will do. Just a religion? No, non-religious Jews remain Jews. Just a people? No, one may formally convert to Judaism. From the traditional Jewish perspective, Jews form something like a family. We are faced with either a reduction to one of the general categories or the acknowledgement that there is no proper category, and that Jews as a group form a specific entity, a sui generis category. While this second option is much better, we know that we cannot avoid comparisons of this unique group with other religious, national, ethnic groups. Thus, when considering the

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problem of who is the participant in dialogue - Jews, Judaism, Jewry? we must operate on an objective, sociological level. How hard it is to accept the diverging categories is well illustrated by the fact that at a Catholic university in Warsaw, the Institute of Catholic-Judaic Dialogue2 was established, despite suggestions that it should be called 'CatholicJewish'. To make things even more complicated, let us note that the group of believers, or adherents, of a religion should be seen also diachronically, that is, as involving previous generations. In addition, future generations must not be ignored, at least in the case of Judaism. Then, of course, the postulate of 'authorization' looks hopeless. It could seem that what is really needed is the representation of the 'essence' of the given religion. To define this is, however, no less hopeless a task. The science of religion and the philosophy of religion have not been able to determine in a generally approved manner what are the most important aspects of religion either generally or in relation to a particular religion. Even if they did, or if some theoreticians of dialogue agreed on the way of presenting the essence of (a) religion, we would still face the dilemma of who is the rightful representative of the essence. Is it a matter of knowledge, experience, inspiration, or genes? To overcome the impasse one could try some simple, but seemingly natural solutions. One is that the essence of religion is grasped in holy texts, another is that it is expressed in liturgy and rituals. Holy texts are extremely important. Certainly in Judaism they are absolutely fundamental. There are, however, religions without holy books. Should they be excluded from the dialogue? And sometimes the books can be so voluminous, as in Judaism's case; few people really know them all. Should the rest of us be excluded? Almost inevitably, one turns back to the elusive essence, which can be included in just a manageable part of the canon. But can it? Again, there is too much disagreement for us to be able to confidently seek a solution in the invocation of textual traditions. Perhaps, then, it is better to take rituals as the point of reference? Certainly, these are of utmost importance, appearing as they do in every religion. Moreover, they are not prohibitively large, at least so far as the standard, or most important ones, are concerned. What would be meant, however, by the representation of rituals? Expertise? Experience of the actual performance of rituals? But then women would be excluded from dialogue given their role in many religions, including Orthodox Judaism, Roman Catholicism and Islam. In fact, until very recently in no religion on our list had women the right to perform the main religious rituals. Yet to limit the participation of women is obviously inappropriate, at least to virtually all of us who practise the dialogue. Does that mean that dialogue is for experts on liturgy? No, since there are experts who are themselves of another religion (and the same is true in relation to sacred texts). Such 2 Instytut Dialoga Katolicko-Judaistycznego at Akademia Teologii Katolickiej, renamed in 1999, Uniwersytet Kardynala Stefana Wyszynskiego. The institute is not very active, but this is a separate story.

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scholars can enter a fruitful exchange, but this is not an interreligious dialogue. While dialogue participants are often 'expert believers', modern dialogue is also open to people who are not experts. Some competence is needed, of course, but what is really required can be summarized as, first, good will and openness, and, second, a certainty that, yes, the participant represents her religion.

B. Traditions The above considerations show that it is hard, if it is at all possible, to determine the essence of a religion, and that dialogue seems to be not primarily about texts or rituals, however essential these may be for a religion and more specifically for interreligious dialogue. We must go back to the initial and concluding observations: dialogue takes place between individuals who represent their religions. Rather than just give up the task of clarifying the meaning of religion here, it is possible to do a little better: instead of religions we can speak of religious traditions. The change may appear cosmetic, but it helps. Even in the absence of a familiarity with scholarly analysis of the term 'tradition', one can grasp its meaning and the fact that it suggests a lively, diachronic, developing social reality, related in a variety of ways to its sources and foundations, and internalized by individuals who identify with it to a greater or lesser extent. Not surprisingly, authors who share this view of religion often tend to use the term 'tradition'.3 What is more, there is no need to state who has the right to express or articulate a tradition, as this may vary, and its focus can be seen, depending on the case, in an institution, a group of people, a corpus of texts, a set of practices. Let us assume, then, that interreligious dialogue is the dialogue of traditions, or rather, it takes place between persons who represent religious traditions. This means that for such an individual the respective tradition forms an essential part of his or her identity, and this is perceived by the dialogue partners. Understandably, a tradition can be interpreted in various ways, and almost nobody can know all its nuances. A participant in dialogue should be aware of this reality, must be sufficiently knowledgeable; above all, he has to identify with the tradition. Identification is not the same as acceptance of everything established in the past. Tradition should be perceived as a field within which one's religious identity is rooted, and so is one's identity tout court. Various elements of the tradition may be reinterpreted or modified. To do that, to begin a confrontation with tradition, one has to fully identify with it on a deeper level, to feel that it is one's own tradition - and that this feeling is seen and accepted as genuine by everybody involved. The dialogue of philosophers is different. If as a result of a discussion a philosopher stops representing a particular philosophical standpoint, or tradition, and begins to argue in a way that could locate him within another view, 3 An important example is provided by Wilfred Cantwell Smith 1981.

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nothing special happens. The discussion can go on, maybe after a clarification of an initial confusion. In contrast, in interreligious dialogue a participant's move away from (the representation of) a particular religious tradition must lead to a serious crisis. For example, when in 2006 in Poland a well-known Jesuit involved in interreligious dialogue left the order and the priesthood, he became completely 'unfit7 for the dialogue, despite the fact that he of course remained as learned, knowledgeable, experienced, open-minded and, presumably, as spiritual as before. The contrast was noted by Norbert Samuelson,4 who illustrated the difference in an illuminating way: in interreligious dialogue it is legitimate to ask whether the partner is a genuine believer, or member of the tradition. In a philosophical dialogue, like in scientific debates, such questions make no sense, as everybody represents her individual reason, even though we know that reason must function within a culture, an intellectual horizon, that is, within a tradition in, say, the sense of Gadamer. In interreligious dialogue one must intentionally maintain one's identification with the given tradition, assume all the moves to remain within its framework, even if radical reinterpretations are attempted. There is an exception to the seemingly definitive character of the contrast between the freedom of philosophical debates and the rigidity of basic assumptions of the interreligious exchange. Namely, the tradition of philosophy as a whole, or rationalism, can be seen as the framework that may not be abandoned in a philosophical dialogue; otherwise one would be sent outside the community of philosophers. Indeed, Wilfred Cantwell Smith proposed that philosophy be regarded as a religion, in fact as a religious tradition.5 This is an interesting perspective on an important component of European identity, the tension between the religious and the philosophical. The latter assumes the universality of reason, which needs no specific tradition. European rationalism gave rise to science, a unique development, which was progressing against views sanctioned by religions. Yet the perception of individual reason as participating in Reason opens a perspective on transcendence, and this makes it a religion of sorts, argues Cantwell Smith. Dialogue is a counterbalance. In matters that can be solved by reasoning, dialogue is theoretically dispensable. If pure reason is enough, the dialogue of experts is enough. In contemporary philosophy the emphasis is on the importance of pre-philosophical experiences and pre-judgements. And then we are back to traditions, and in particular major religious traditions. Hindu thinkers are as intelligent and erudite as European ones, but their thinking is different, apparently because of their different religious background. The identification with one's tradition is crucial, but some mutually accepted competence is necessary, too. Some further necessary conditions must be met in order for deep interreligious dialogue to happen, among them, self-criticism. Many people who have experience of 4 In Dean 1995,142. 5 Smith 2001.

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dialogue say that a degree of criticism of one's tradition is needed, because in the traditional approach a lot of confrontational ingredients are present. For example, for genuine dialogue a vision of religions is needed that does not reject other religions. Following Mary Ann Stenger, who studied 'cross cultural religious knowledge',6 among necessary preconditions of dialogue one can list: (i) dynamic, changeable nature of tradition, (ii) acknowledging of the presence of truth in other religious traditions, (iii) the necessity of having actual representatives and interpreters of religions. Assumption (i) is similar to the requirement of self-criticism, assumption (iii) is related to the thesis that a dialogue of experts is not enough, and assumption (ii), the denial of exclusivism, is close to the just mentioned postulate that other religious traditions must not be rejected. It seems that some of the above conditions have a special affinity to European approaches to traditions. The evolution of traditions is accepted in Europe more than anywhere else, due to the heritage of idealistic philosophy and the biological theory of evolution. Self-criticism is perhaps the most distinctly European style of thought - though obviously it is also manifest in Western cultures in America or Australia. Of course, it comes partly from the rebellion against religion. There is an inherent ambivalence in the attitude of religious institutions to criticism. On the one hand they are conservative and without external pressure are not ready to introduce changes. On the other hand, the biblical tradition the source for both Christians and Jews - contains an appeal for improvement, for a critical attitude. According to Herbert Schneidau, the prophets offer a culture that is 'an unceasing critique of itself'.7 Another source of this phenomenon can be found in the European Enlightenment. Whatever the source, the fact is that thinking and art in Europe has developed to respect no taboos, and religions have mostly adapted, though reluctantly, to the all-encompassing criticism. In post-communist Poland, the dominant Catholic Church has had a hard time to acknowledge this reality, but Poland definitely remains part of European culture, with its individualism and self-criticism, including a critique of the excesses of individualism and criticism. C. Religions and quasi-religions The explication of interreligious dialogue as a dialogue of traditions allows for a natural generalization: it is possible to represent traditions other than the religious ones. Some of them function as ways of understanding the world, perceiving coherence or order in events around us, framing an 'ultimate concern'. This is the role normally assigned to religions. Such quasi-religions include Marxism (communism), scientism (the belief that reality is only what science can study, related to rationalism mentioned above), fascism, perhaps some extreme forms of ecological or feminist ideologies. Obviously it is even more 6 Stenger 1995,162-3. 7 Schneidau quoted after Cohen and Mendes-Flohr 1987, 128.

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difficult to define quasi-religions than conventional religions. Nevertheless, some theoreticians of interreligious dialogue, for example Paul Tillich8 and Ninian Smart,9 did not hesitate to include them as possible dialogue partners. In fact, Smart lists religions and ideologies on a par as 'existential worldviews'.10 More importantly, actual dialogue between some religions and some ideologies has taken place. For example, Christian-Marxist dialogue existed in Europe. However, while in France or Italy it may have been genuine, in Poland and other countries where Marxism was the official line, the dialogue was distorted and could not go very deep. After 1989, Marxism virtually disappeared in Poland, and has for the most part been marginalized elsewhere in Europe; no longer is it dominant in Parisian cafés or German departments of humanities. By contrast, in some parts of Asia, BuddhistMarxist dialogue seems to be alive. At a meeting in Warsaw,11 a Buddhist monk referred to Marxists as genuine partners, and even the most serious ones. Despite this, it is rather doubtful if the dialogues with Marxism could be as genuine and deep as contemporary interreligious dialogue. And if we tried to list the ideologies that are acceptable partners in dialogue we would encounter even more difficulties than exist in the case of religions. Even in the case of religions a degree of arbitrariness seems inevitable, so the same must apply also to ideologies. For example, we would like to eliminate cruel rituals or recently established cults. As an illustration, in free Poland after 1989 many new denominations were registered, and some of them were clearly nongenuine, established only to take advantage of tax privileges granted to 'religions'. One 'Jewish' sect was registered on the basis of a list compiled by paying a number of drunkards for putting their signatures. Some test of life is necessary before an 'existential worldview' can be recognized as partner. This last remark itself suggests a solution that, while arbitrary, will solve most of our problems with the subjective criteria for accepting dialogue partners. A simple, purely formal criterion is possible. By 'formal' I mean that for its application no deeper knowledge of the tradition in question is needed. Namely, let us accept as bona fide partners, the religions, and more generally traditions, that have been passed from parents to children for at least seven generations. The number seven is arbitrary, but it expresses a historical durability requiring an institutional enrooting since it lasts beyond the immediate circle of followers of the originator of the religion or quasi-religion. The decision to reject fresh sects may seem questionable: for sure, some of them can be interesting. Yet it contradicts the principle that traditions are the main point of reference; a tradition to be called genuine must survive for some time and pass the test of life. The adoption of the above 8 Tillich 1963, 6. 9 Smart 1993, 5Z-67. 10 Smart 1993,19. 11 At the Congress of Universalism organized in 1999, at Warsaw University, by Janusz Kuczynski, who incidentally had earlier been involved in Marxist-Christian dialogue.

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seemingly benign criterion of acceptance has devastating consequences for ideologies, including Marxism. Marxism did function as a powerful quasi-religion, and in fact only by looking at it as a religion of sorts, with its saints, holy books, rituals, offerings, priesthood,12 and so on, can one try to understand its message and appeal. And yet neither in Western Europe where it was created, nor in Eastern Europe where it was ruling, nor in Asia where it was implemented, nowhere was Marxism passed from parents to children, and certainly not for more than two, at most three, generations. Maybe Marxism as a way to grasp the meaning of the world and life is not transferable and cannot survive through several generations. Alternatively, however, it may be that the absence of transfer of Marxism is a chance occurrence. Either way, the fact remains that Marxism has nowhere stayed alive for seven generations, and on the basis of our criterion cannot be treated as a bona fide partner in deep interreligious dialogue.

D. Goals of interreligious dialogue Dialogue takes place between individuals representing traditions. What sort of relation is it? The term 'dialogue' is applied to many human contacts. It always refers to listening to the other side (as opposed to monologue), to turning to it (as opposed to ignoring it), to respecting its legitimacy or at least integrality (as opposed to violence, approaching to destroy). Dialogue can occur in various forms, from mere being together (as opposed to boycott), to conversation in which some reaction is involved (as opposed to lecturing or monologue), to exchange of information, to verbal confrontation: discussion, debate, negotiations. There are levels of involvement in interreligious dialogue: from shallow, just being together, which is the level of diplomacy, to more serious encounter, involving exchange, discussion, debate, to deep dialogue, already mentioned before. Describing Christian-Jewish dialogue, Michael Signer distinguishes between disputation (in which the goal is to refute), discussion and dialogue proper.13 Deep, or proper, dialogue is not easy to describe as it is not reducible to any of the forms mentioned above. Not surprisingly, the work of dialogical philosophers is the closest one can get in classical literature. Before presenting it, let us see what are potential results of dialogue, especially of dialogue understood as a 12 The point has been studied by various authors, for example Jacob Talmon, Erich Fromm, Abraham Kaplan, Israel Singer, Julian Stryjkowski. I addressed the issue of the quasireligious character of Marxism and that of the relationship between Marxism and Judaism in two articles: one, 'Jews, communists, and the Jewish communists', Jewish Studies at the Central European University (2000), 119-33, reprinted in my book Poland and the Jews: Reflections of a Polish Jew, Krakow: Austeria, 2005; and an earlier one, 'Jews and communism', in From the Polish Underground: Selection from Krytyka 1978-1993, ed. M. Bernhard and H. Szlajfer, University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996, 353-94. (This is a translation of an article published in an underground journal Krytyka 15 (1983), 178-206, under the pen name Abel Kainer.) 13 In 'Jewish-Christian Dialogue in the Post-Modern Situation', published so far only in German: 'Juden und Christen in postmodern GeseUschaff, Zur Debatte 34 (2004), 26-7.

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verbal confrontation. Four outcomes are possible: (i) better knowledge, possibly mutual, (ii) consensus, (iii) victory (and defeat for the other side), (iv) no (direct) effect. For instance, in negotiations, it means respectively (i) the creation of a list of points agreed and disagreed, (ii) the signing of an agreement, (iii) the signing of a capitulation, (iv) no outcome because of, for example, the disruption of the negotiations. Yet, in case (iv) lack of progress in negotiations does not preclude success on another level. It may be a positive spiritual change of both or only one of the dialogue partners. Often the lack of perceptible effect can signify a failure, but this situation would mean success if it accompanied the awareness that dialogue may have no aim, or that dialogue can be its own goal. Aimlessness is a striking idea, doubtful on a practical level, but satisfactory from a philosophical perspective. As Lévinas remarked with regard to Rosenzweig's vision of Christian-Jewish dialogue, it is not to achieve a conclusion, but it constitutes itself 'the very life of truth'.14 The discussion of possible outcomes of dialogue can be related to Lévinas, too. According to him the relation to other human beings presents a new issue, neglected by ontology that reduces the other to the same, and also by traditional epistemology that accepts knowledge to be an assimilation to the knower, thus an appropriation, domination. Every totality, or a common denominator for all phenomena, is destructive to the Other, as is the realm of intelligibility. Now, in the cases (i), (ii) and (iii) the domination of totality is apparent as the point is to reduce the difference, to strengthen what is common, either by getting to know, or by compromise, or by subjugation. It is case (iv) that opens the chance (not the certainty) of entering the dimension that has been revealed by Lévinas15 - to acknowledge the alterity of the other, approach him or her with reverence. As mentioned above, the deep, 'Levinasian' dialogue happens in the moment when the other side is seen as neither an enemy, an opponent, a competitor, nor a partner in business or a game, nor even an ally or an object of cognition, but as the Thou of whom nothing is expected. The lack of expectations is probably the most difficult aspect of the deep dialogue we try to describe. Critics would say that in actual encounters there are many expectations on each side. This is true. Even if we ignore such expectations as the hope of conversion, which has been greatly reduced in genuine contemporary dialogue, subtler expectations exist, often based on good will. For example, European Christians have expected Jews to express some sort of approval for Church dogmas and rituals, and thereby provide a legitimization of Christianity. On the other hand, Jews have expected a recognition of the Christian roots of 14 Lévinas 1963, 214. 15 Lévinas was among the first to note the presence and desirability of aimlessness in interreligious meetings in Paris; see his lecture of 1967, Tar-delà le dialogue', Sens 9/10 (1996), 375. Actually, he had stated something to that effect already in Cahiers de U Alliance Israelite Universelle 119 (1958), 26. (Cf. also my forthcoming article 'Lévinas and inter-religious dialogue', in the proceedings of a conference on Lévinas held at Warsaw University in October 2006.)

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antisemitism. More, one can ask how deeply ingrained antisemitism is in the identity of Europeans; after all, in addition to the theological tensions, throughout centuries Jews were the most visible non-Christian minority. Another Jewish expectation, the recognition of the legitimacy of Jewish claims to sovereignty in the Land of Israel, is common in contemporary meetings. In encounters with Muslims, others inevitably expect them to relate to the problem of violent acts performed by radical Islamic political movements. It is also hard not to expect the representatives of all monotheistic traditions to define their attitudes to Zionism. Interestingly, in contemporary Poland anti-Zionist attitudes are not strong. Also among traditional Polish Muslims, descendants of the Tartars who were invading Europe since the thirteenth century, pro-Israel attitudes exist; they were first expressed in the 1930s in a pro-Zionist fatwa by the Polish Mufti Jakub Szynkiewicz. How, then, is it possible to meet, even for a moment, without expectations, with no goal, even an implicit one? The foundations of the problem have been studied by the philosophy of dialogue. Martin Buber distinguishes between monologue and technical dialogue on the one hand, and genuine dialogue on the other hand, when the 'speaker "means" the partner or partners to whom he turns as this personal existence. ... make the other present as a whole and as a unique being .. ,/16 The meaning of such situations is accessible only to those who are participants, similar to being in love. Nothing is said about the other. To see the other person as the Other, that is in his/her 'wholeness, uniqueness' is the opposite to the analytical, reductive approach. The cognitive approach destroys the 'mystery of interhuman', which is 'a separate category of our existence, even a separate dimension' of it.17 Genuine dialogue means acceptance of the partner, but this does not necessarily mean the approval of his views. At the same time, says Buber, anything can be said, and nothing should be kept back. Unexpected results can then emerge, 'a memorable common fruitfulness which is to be found nowhere else'.18 Buber's insight - as well as that of Lévinas - is about humans and humanity, not about religions. The problem is whether it also applies to human beings seen as representatives of religious traditions. To do that we have to relate to the other as to a person linked to his or her tradition in an essential identity-forming way. This move is usually made in a rather unconscious way: various authors refer to Buber when they try to describe deep interreligious dialogue.19 A natural character of the move (which seems to contradict the philosophy of Lévinas) is confirmed by Buber: for him learning facts, confrontation, struggle are possible in dialogue - compare goals (i), (ii), (iii) - and at the same time the deeper dimension can be reached, the one corresponding to (iv), absence of direct aim. 16 17 18 19

Buber 1985, 85. Buber 1985, 72. Buber 1985, 86. Cf., for instance, the entry on dialogue in Kessler and Wenborn 2006,123-4.

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Intentional aimlessness seems to exclude expectations, since every expectation introduces a pressure upon the dialogue partner, and therefore an implicit goal. In deep dialogue it is necessary, however, to bring one basic expectation, namely mutuality. This dialogue is possible only when both sides perceive both themselves and the partner as participants in a (momentary) dialogue with no goal, beyond cognition, attempt to convince, compromise. The apparent contradiction between the postulate of aimlessness and the condition of mutuality can be overcome: the expectation of mutuality is a metaexpectation, or a secondorder expectation. In no way does it refer to the topics of the meeting or to religious issues; it describes what kind of meeting is to be held. However, despite the formal character of the metaexpectation, its consequences can influence the attitude toward the religion of the dialogue partner. For example, it may entail the rejection of confrontational attitudes, because such attitudes assume that some elements of the other's religion must be refuted or modified. This is out of place in those moments when the other is embraced in his or her wholeness and uniqueness, and the lack of specific expectations is clear to all who are involved. The full, disinterested affirmation also includes, and in the case of interreligious dialogue perhaps is primarily concerned with, the religiosity of the other. This means that the attempt to convert the other is out of the question. This conclusion may seem to reflect a Jewish bias, since the prospect of missionary activity was for centuries, in Europe, the principal source of Jewish fear of the Church. Yet the fact is that all those who are seriously involved in dialogue know that it is right and necessary to resign from missionizing.

Afterword: How Secular is Europe Today? Tomás Halík Just as the term 'religion' has many meanings, so the 'secular' may be conceptualized in many different ways. How secular is Europe today? No statistics can provide a definitive answer to this question. Statistical data about the percentage of people attending church services in the individual countries of Europe, and the frequency of church attendance, do not by themselves provide a reliable indicator of religiosity. This is partly because it is hard for us to discover the conscious and unconscious factors that motivate certain people to attend church services while others do not. Likewise, data about how many people believe in the existence of God and how many do not can be misleading unless accompanied by information about what those 'believers' and 'nonbelievers' understand by the words 'God' and 'existence'. The idea that faith is simply a matter of holding the opinion that 'God exists' reflects a very superficial understanding of religion. The borders separating belief from unbelief cannot be defined as exactly as can, say, those between countries: nowadays this frontier traverses the hearts and minds of many individual human beings. Can one really describe as a 'secular situation' the fact that to many Europeans religion is not something self-evident? But is not our knowledge of the spiritual life of bygone generations profound enough to allow us to assert that this symbiosis of belief and unbelief has always existed in some form, albeit covertly? Moreover, the labels 'belief and 'unbelief can conceal a whole range of utterly distinct phenomena. How is one to distinguish between various kinds of 'substitute religions' and idolatry, between intellectual doubts and the 'dark nights' of faith, between atheism and the critique of infantile forms of religion, etc., etc.? Similarly, atheism, which a century ago seemed to be on the path to victory, has ceased to be self-evident to many. I do not intend in this essay to speak about believers and nonbelievers, but instead about those who speak about God - and are willing to speak about Him publicly - and those who are silent about God. We should realize that this line of thought hasn't helped us to any great extent. We are all aware, after all, that speaking about God may include not only acts of praise and prayer but also blasphemy or profanity, such as 'taking the Lord's name in vain'. On the other hand, being silent about God may be just as easily an expression of supreme reverence for the inexpressible mystery or a reference to the boundary of language, as it may be an expression of disdainful indifference, or the ultimate form of 192

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rejection. If one compares the almost trivial way in which the word 'God' is used in American political discourse - as in the warlike speeches of President G. W. Bush - with the antipathy that the word aroused when the preamble of the EU constitution was under discussion, one wonders whether it is in fact in Europe that God is taken more seriously. There are those who would like the word 'God' to be included in the preamble to the European constitution. Others commit dastardly acts of mass murder against civilians - even on Europe's territory - in the name of God or God's will. Are these groups talking about the same God? Some Europeans who have ceased not only to talk about God but even to think about Him would seem to believe so; in the name of 'political correctness', the spectre of religion - any religion - must be removed from the public arena! No Muslim scarf, Christian cross or Jewish phylacteries may be allowed to evoke it. Where, then, are the guarantees that these very policies might not allow some other god, some other religion, some other spectre to step into the vacuum, or that this new religion (or counter-religion) will be more tolerant towards the 'others' than the old ones were? Europe's future cultural space will continue to be inhabited by people who speak about God and by those who are silent about God. In what way will their coexistence be affected by the process of European integration, which is surmounting existing frontiers in the fields of politics, economics, administration and educational systems? Will the existing barriers between them also 'soften'? Or, on the contrary, will integration give rise to painful collisions? It would seem that mutual prejudice and suspicion between groups has increased in the recent period. Within the ranks of the advocates of secular humanism the suspicion is being voiced that those who speak about God, and especially those who suggest that his mention not be regarded as unbecoming even in the basic legal documents of a unified Europe, are potential allies of those who would like to turn the historical clock back to pre-modern times. There is also the suggestion that they are potentially capable, out of hatred of pluralistic civilization and its concept of freedom, of seeking to assert their sole truth through violent means. Conversely, among believers, one may encounter the suspicion that those who say nothing about God and want to squeeze reminders and symbols of God out of public life are not only sawing off one branch of the spreading tree of European culture, but are cutting through their own roots and preparing the ground for Europe's ruin. These mutual suspicions need to be articulated. Moreover, it is necessary to leave behind these two 'preunderstandings' (in the sense of Vorverständnis) burdened with the traumas of the past, and to gradually replace this 'hermeneutics of suspicion' with a 'hermeneutics of trust'- the art of seeing the world through others' eyes and so broadening the horizon of our previous experience: trying to understand why some attach so much importance to 'the mention of God's name' while others fear it. The tragic experience of communism's militant atheism and the abuse of religion by radical Islamists should rouse contemporary Europeans to look for an alterna-

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tive path, to seek the possibility of encounter and mutual understanding between secularism and belief, between silence about God and speaking about God. The fact that Christian faith and secularism have cohabited this spiritual space for so long in various forms of 'contiguity and conflict' means that it is possible to 'think them together'. This entails not the simple recognition of diversity as legitimate, or its polite toleration, but a more significant openness to the possibilities of complementarity within diversity. In his analysis of the results of a European Values Study, the Tübingen theologian Peter Hünermann notes that 'in the course of the modern era a fundamental change occurred in Europe: from being a self-evident, familiar God, God became an alien, unknown God'.1 Does this not present Christianity with an enormous - and to date, unexplored opportunity? A well-known scene in the Acts of the Apostles describes one of the first (not particularly successful) encounters between nascent Christianity and the ancient Greek world, Paul's preaching at the Areopagus in Athens.2 Is the fact that the Apostle starts his sermon by referring to the 'Altar to an Unknown God' simply a sign of Paul's oratorical quick-wittedness, or does it mean something more than this? I see the scene as a paradigmatic one: 'the Altar to an Unknown God' is precisely the most appropriate 'topos' for proclaiming the Christian message. For Paul, as a Jew and as a Christian, the only true God is the one who cannot be portrayed, one hidden in mystery: a known god is no god at all. It is, then, not surprising that the ancient world - a 'world full of gods' - for centuries regarded Jews and Christians as atheists. Let us meditate for a moment on Paul's sermon on the Areopagus. What did the Apostle say, and what was he intending to say at the moment he was interrupted? Paul first praises the Athenians for their piety in erecting altars to so many gods, so that they even remember 'an Unknown God' whose altar has particularly intrigued him when strolling through the holy garden. Bible commentators continue to argue over whether these words of praise for 'pagan idolatry' - quite unusual from the lips of a devout Jew - were a rhetorical 'captatio benevolentiae' or instead an expression of caustic irony. Paul proceeds to interpret this 'Unknown God': 'In fact, the unknown God you revere is the one I proclaim to you/ This god is not some forgotten deity, to be honoured just to be on the safe side, in order to avoid invoking his anger and vengeance; it is the Creator and Lord of heaven and earth. Immediately afterwards, Acts offers Paul's critique of idolatry. This God does not dwell in material temples and requires no human rituals; after all divinity is not some man-made material object. Idolatry, Paul says, is an expression of ignorance. It is an immature attitude to God that God has long tolerated, but now the situation has changed radically and the time has come to repent. It is 1 Hünermann 1998,204; likewise the same author in his commentary on a European Values Study, which found that 4 per cent of Europeans describe themselves as atheists, but only 35 per cent believe in a 'personal God' (18 per cent don't know and 35 per cent believe in a 'higher power'): 'For two thirds of Europe's population, God is an alien God' - see Hünermann 1998. 2 Cf. Acts 17.15-18.1.

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remarkable that Paul talks about the Greeks' worship of gods in a similar spirit of censure and irony as that deployed by the prophets of Israel or by the ancient philosophers when criticizing primitive religious anthropomorphism. Nonetheless he finds for them a certain time-contingent tolerance. Perhaps he implicitly accepts the 'period of ignorance' - the era of pagan religions - as a kind of pedagogical preparation for the coming of Christ, rather in the way he refers in his letters to the Mosaic Law. Here he speaks about the true God, the one unknown to the Greeks, more in philosophical categories and in terms of poetic piety, than in terms of religion as a cult. But there are some other things we should note: the 'Unknown God' is not a distant God. On the contrary he is incredibly close to us: 'it is in him that we live, and move'. God is, as it were, an essential part of our Lebenswelt. His unknown-ness is a function not of his remoteness, but rather of his extreme proximity. After all, we know least of all about what is closest to us, what is our very own, that which we take for granted. None of us has seen our own face - we only see its image in a mirror. And we can only see God in a mirror; elsewhere Paul famously states that during our lives we see God only partly: 'a dim reflection in a mirror', but after death we will see him 'face to face'. Paul wants to show the Athenians the 'face' of the unknown, too close, God, as mirrored in the story of Jesus of Nazareth, above all in his paradoxical end/non-end: cross and resurrection. But in Acts' account of the episode, this does not actually happen. When Paul says the words 'resurrection from the dead', some of the Athenians start to sneer, while others walk off, having lost interest. In this way, Paul's sermon on the Areopagus and the entire early attempt at 'interreligious and intercultural' dialogue comes to an embarrassing end, and we can only surmise how it might have continued. Paul, insofar as we can guess the possible continuation of his sermon, would probably want to show that in the mirror of Jesus' Easter story, the God who is 'unknown', yet near, proves himself to be a God of paradox. His most typical feature is that he turns weakness into strength, death into life, defeat into victory, folly into wisdom and wisdom into folly. That is why he is mysterious, unpredictable, ambiguous, cannot be 'groped for', but instead opens the mystery of his heart precisely in the story of the man Jesus, who humbled himself, assumed the condition of a slave and was obedient right to the moment of his ignominious execution - which is why God raised him on high. The kenosis of the Son of God, his self-surrender, self-emptying, self-frustration, his submission - this is the true face of the Unknown God. Is it therefore so surprising that God, who is so close, should remain unknown to so many, when he reveals himself in stories that are 'an obstacle to the Jews and sheer madness to the gentiles'? Is it really so surprising that sermons about him tend to be interrupted under all sorts of pretexts and not heard out? Or that when his story is heard two thousand years later, it is still not fully understood in certain respects? I cannot help having misgivings as to whether, over time, Christians have not constantly fallen prey to the temptation to exchange the

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paradoxical God of Christ's Easter story for a 'familiar god' who fits with human notions and the expectations of specific epochs. Moreover, if this has happened, and Christian thinking is burdened with this legacy, then is not the entire complex phenomenon that we call secularization, criticism and undermining of religion, atheism, etc. - or at least certain features of this phenomenon - a blessing, an opportunity for discernment, the opening up of a space in which we may hear anew Paul's message? Might not the situation in which, for a large proportion of Europeans, God is an unknown and alien god, be a summons to a 'new Areopagus'? Let us now leap across eighteen centuries of history. To another crowd, in another marketplace, comes another madman speaking of an unknown god. The man, searching for God in the daylight with a lantern, like Diogenes searching for man, arrives (in the chapter entitled Madman (Der tolle Mensch) of Friedrich Nietzsche's Gay Science3) - but, unlike Paul, he comes among those who do not believe in God. This detail in that well-known and celebrated text is often overlooked: the Madman, who comes as a herald of God's death, comes to provoke not believers but unbelievers. Nietzsche uses his message to make their matter-of-course atheism once more a problem. The people mock the seeker after God, because they have long ceased to seek him. 'Is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage?', they scoff at the mad seeker, sure in their belief that 'there is no God'. And they cannot understand his plaintive message about why there is now 'no God': 'We have killed him, you and I!' Those for whom God simply does not exist, who is not and never was, and those for whom - with equal matter-of-factness - God has 'existed' from the beginning of time as an unchanging metaphysical entity, must necessarily find the message about the death of God equally mad and incomprehensible as the Athenians did Paul's message of the resurrection. It was possible to remind the Athenians that divinity was the most intimate part of their Lebenswelt, so close and commonplace that they failed to notice it any more, just as we are unaware of the smell of our home when we are in it all the time. For Europeans on the postmodern marketplace, who take for granted that they no longer live in the presence of the sacred, God's absence (concealed by unthinking conventional atheism or conventional religiosity) has become so axiomatic that its cause and effect need to be demonstrated dramatically. 'All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? [.. .]Whither are we moving?'4 The anti-evangelist of Nietzsche's parable does not come in order to bring about his listeners' conversion to atheism, but to arouse in them a sense of responsibility for the unacknowledged or forgotten reasons for their atheism. The Madman (and Nietzsche in his guise) is not seeking to 3 Cf. Nietzsche 1974, para. 125, pp. 181-2. 4 Cf. Nietzsche 1974, para. 125, pp. 181-2.

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'propagate' atheism and bring about the death of God in the minds of his listeners, but instead he has come to spread the news that this event has already occurred and to explain its meaning; he wants his listeners to realize how fundamentally this event concerns them. They are the jointvictims and joint-perpetrators of God's death. In Nietzsche's text, the ambivalence of the outcome of God's murder is only hinted at; the deed is 'too great' for its perpetrators to accept. They can only fail to grasp its shocking implications either as a fault for which they must accept responsibility or even as a liberating opportunity that they have to seize; they are quite simply incapable of understanding the message at all. In a sense, the Madman is mad because he came too early. Maybe today, after all the experiences of the twentieth century, we have a better understanding of this message. In 'post-Auschwitz theology' (and its necessary complement, 'post-Gulag theology'), Jewish and Christian thinkers have rejected various forms of the 'known God', as having been in many instances no more than a projection onto the heavens of all-too-human wishes and anxieties. They accepted much of the criticism levelled by secular thinkers at an overnaive religiosity, which failed to take seriously enough the experience of 'the dark nights of history'. They perceived this kind of criticism of religion as something that assisted faith, as a necessary destruction of 'too facile a belief. They rediscovered the God of paradox - the Jews often through a return to the mystique of Shekhina (the Glory of God) in the exile, and the Christians through a return to 'the theology of the cross'. They sought to understand the 'secular world' as an expression of 'God's silence', which permitted two possible interpretations: 'God is dead', but also 'God speaks through His silence'. The need to reject 'too facile a belief and the effort to find reasons for hope can help to reconcile through dialogue those who speak about God and those who are silent about Him. They need each other: the liberal critique may, for example, help religion from ossifying into mere ideology. But should secular thinking cease to be just a critical partner of religion, should it try to displace religion altogether and obtain an ideological monopoly in the public arena, it would immediately turn itself into its own professed target - a destructive and intolerant religion.

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Index abortion 121,126,127,129, 130, 131, 132 absolutism 75 academia 3,10,11,18, 35, 38,112,113, 161 accession 4, 5, 10, 81,131, 156, 173 accountability 173 acquis communautaire 4 Africa 18, 29, 80 baptism of Jews of Africa 57 Islamism 17 agnostics 175 Akbar, A. 30 Alaska 79 Alexandria 53 Alexei H (Patriarch) 72, 81 Alexiad 60 Alexy 81 Alfeyev 80, 82, 87 see also Bishop Hilarión Algeria 20 alliance 41, 44, 52, 88, 122, 171, 193 between Marxist vision of history and nationalist ideology 90 between Russian Orthodox and Catholic Church 84 Ambrosewicz-Jacobs, J. 12, 105 America 4,11, 25, 30, 36, 46, 49, 67, 79, 138, 143, 148-50, 179, 186, 193 amnesia 100,168 see also memory anarchism 29 Anatolia 57 Anglicanism 44, 46, 47, 48, 50, 74, 86, 87, 159 Anglo-Catholics 46, 47, 48, 49 Anglo-Florentines 44 Anglo-Jews 36 see also hyphenated identities Ankori, Z. 53, 66, 67 annihilation 61, 73 of Jewish life in Poland 90 anthropology 163 AntiochSO Aquinas, T. 163,176 Arabs 16,18, 22, 31, 37 Armenia 57, 62, Armenian diaspora 38 Armenians 57, 59, 63, 66

Asbestas, G. 58 Asia 18, 33, 35,188 Buddhist-Marxist dialogue 187 Central 73 Islamism in 17 South 18 assimilation 25, 32, 36, 51,189 by compulsion 33 Czech resistance to 136 Athanasios L, E. (Patriarchs) 62-4 atheism 15, 121-3, 126, 131,175, 192, 194, 197 identification with communism 125, 193 Nietzsche 196 see also Nietzche, F. state religion (Soviet) 70 Augustine, St 176 Auschwitz 92, 95, 101, 107-8, 113-14, 116, 172, 176, 197 Austria 45, 80, 135,136, 148 Vienna 43, 80, 83 Australia 186 authoritarianism 4,128, 129,156 based on theocratic pretension 159 see also Benedict XVI autocracy 76 autonomy 170 Czech 135, 137 of Jewish communities in fourteenth and fifteenth centuries 55 Azeglio d', M. 45 Bahai 181 Bangladesh 20, 33 Bartholomew (Patriarch) 82 Basil I. 54, 56-8 Bauer, Y. 116 Bauman, Z. 99,100, 105, 109,112 BBC 29, 30 Belgium 85 Bellavin (Metropolitan) 79 see also Tikhon Belorussia 120 Benedict XVI1, 82-3,156-78 Christian roots of Europe 15 Deus Caritas Est 159 Europe's cohesion 2 modern European identity 169 Regensburg lecture 83

221

222

Index

see also Ratzinger, J. Berlin 79,143 Bible 44, 68,157,163,166,174 Benedict XVI164 biblicism 159 Czech Unitarians 147 Darwin on 47 Greek translation 55 and Jews of Byzantium 62 and 'pagan idolatory' 194 rabbinical Judaism 165 revealed 58 study in Florence 45 and the vernacular 42 Bkmski, J. 90, 95 debate 96 Bolshevik 69, 72, 79 Bonn 60 Bosnia 17, 26 Bradford 30, 36 Brest-Litovsk (Union) 85 Britain 19, 26, 29, 31, 33, 41, 43, 44, 46, 47,145,154 Britishness 36, 39 British-Asians 31 British-Hindus 36 British-Muslims 36 multiculturalism 30, 36 Muslim organizations in 37 Prussian school of history 172 secularism 21, 35 Brown, A. 6, 12,143 Brussels 80, 84, 85 Buber, M. 190 Buddhism 30, 86, 87, 154,181,187 inter-religious dialogue 181 in Poland 130 in Russia 76 Bulekov, Hegumen Philaret 80, 84 Bulgaria 5, 23, 59 Byrnes, T. 10, 21,171,173 bystanders 112, 116 Byzantium 53-66, 78, 83,135, 156,172 Caesarea 53 caliphate 17 canon 58, 78, 79, 85,159,183 Capek, N. 143,145,146,147,148,149, 150,151,152,153,154 Carmelite, Convent at Auschwitz 92, 95 cartoons crisis (Denmark) 25, 46, 48 Casanova 170,172,175,178 Catholicism 1, 8,12, 21, 27, 40-4, 46-8, 50, 53, 61, 69, 74, 80,117,119,123-7, 130-3,137, 143-4,151,156,158-62, 164, 166-7, 170^8, 179, 181, 182,186

anti-Catholic 131 Catholic-Judaic dialogue 183 Catholic-Orthodox 82, 85 Catholic-Protestant 160 conservative and liberal dissent 156 and Polishness 120,122 post-conciliar 163-4 reason and faith 177 women in inter-religious dialogue 183 Chadha, G. 31 Christendom 28, 157 Christian Democracy 15 Christian Democrats 170 Christianity anti-Christian 74,131 Christian-Jewish 180,182,188,189 Christian-Marxist 187 and Czech Unitarianism 143,144, 150-51 Enlightenment 176 Europe's heritage 1,15-16,168-77 and Islam 19-22 Judaism and Orthodox Christianity 53-67 Orthodox Greek 11, 53 Russian 11,68,69-70,73,75-6,7881,84-8 Protestant 43, 44, 48-50, 74, 86, 87, 120,130,136-7,144, 159, 175,179, 182 Brethren Italian 43 Czech 146 Tractarian (movement) 46 Roman Catholic Church 1,12,41,42, 44, 46-7, 61, 74, 86, 91,120,124, 166, 181 under communism 121-2 Poland 103,117,119-122,125,127, 130,132 Roman Catholicism 158,159,162, 163, 183 and rabbinical Judaism 165-6 and unknown God 194 Christian-Jewish relations Catholic-Jewish relations 166,183 Greek Orthodox-Jewish relations 11, 53 Chrysostom 64 Christophobia 169 citizenship 113-14,119,173 civil society 4, 5, 22, 28, 41, 50, 52,116, 130, 132

Index see also non-governmental organizations Cold War 2, 176 communism as hypersecularism 169 national communism in Poland 94 post-communism 97 Comnena, A. 60 concordance 7, 76 confederation 173 confession 53, 61, 82, 103, 144, 152 congregation 43, 44, 49, 129,144, 147, 148,151 conquest 7, 110 Constantine I 55 Constantinople 60, 61, 62, 81 constitution constitution-building 4, 7 European Constitution (Treaty on) 134, 168-78 Preamble to 178, 193 in Poland 132 contraception 126, 127,129, 131 conversion 21, 55, 60,65-6, 75,189,196 forced 56-58 Costa D', G. 163,164, 166 Council of Europe 80, 83 covenant 161,165 crusade 14, 136 cult 40, 43, 44, 70, 119, 135, 187, 195 Curia 45 Czech Republic 10, 12, 135-54, 169 Brno 149 Moravia 135, 136, 146, 150 Czechoslovakia 169 Dagron, G. 53, 54, 56, 57, 58 Damaskinos (Archbishop) 66 Danes 3 Danielou, J. 69 Darwin, C. 47 Dassetto, F. 20 Davie, G. 15, 21 Dawson, C. 174, 176 deity 63, 74, 194 Delanty, G. 99, 100, 103 Deleuze, G. 38, 39, 41, 42, 48, 51, 52 Denmark 3 dialogue 6, 12, 31, 34, 67, 113, 117, 177-S, 190, 197 'Dialogue Among Civilizations' 51 intercultural 11, 195 interreligious 13, 48, 50, 53,156,159, 181-90 Judaism-Christianity 53,61,166,180 Orthodox-Catholic 80-1, 83-6, 88 philosophy of 179

223

diaspora 35, 38, 91 Domanska, E. 91 Droysen, J. 173 Dubois, Y. 74 Dupius, J. 162 ecclesia 58, 61, 68, 78-9,136,157, 160, 173 ecology 146,154, 186 ecumenism 48, 50, 69, 179 education 2, 3,12,15-16, 23, 25, 40, 42, 44, 47, 50, 60, 68, 76, 83, 84, 92, 94, 105,106,107,108,111-18,121,124-7, 129, 132,160,158, 193 teachers 44, 47,112, 113,125 teacher-training 114 universities 15, 70, 92 see also academia Egypt 62, 64 Eickelmann, D. 22 Eisenach 70 Ellingsen, M. 159 Elshtain, J.B. 174 emancipation 42, 47,138,177 Jewish 44-5 empowerment, 2 encyclicals 159, 161,167, 168 England 21,31,34,39-40,43-50,69,80, 108, 138, 143,169, 171,174 enlargement 1, 4, 5, 7, 10, 17 Enlightenment 9,14,16, 21, 140, 167, 168-78, 186 Enyedi, Z. 15 epistemology 189 Esbenshade, R. 97 eschatology 9, 75, 165, 176 Esposito, J.L. 19, 22, 23 Estonia 68, 85 ethnicity 22, 36, 55, 69, 71 European Union (EU) 4,5, 6,14-17,20, 23, 25, 78, 81, 102, 131, 141,156, 170, 193 borders 5, 17, 78 Constitution Treaty/European Constitution 3, 7-8, 9, 11-13, 131, 156,160, 168, 170-2,193 Preamble 178 Year of Intercultural Dialogue 11 see also enlargement see also integration Europe Euro-Islam 27 Europeanization 21 Eusebius of Caeserea 53 evangelism 41, 43, 45, 46, 49, 50, 131 exceptionalism 23 exclusivista 6, 12, 32, 35, 37, 40, 54,

224

Index

103,128,130,153,159,161-2,168, 175,186 Fagan, G. 76 faith 2,10,12-13,18-19, 20, 22, 23, 312, 34-5, 37, 40, 50, 54, 57, 59, 60, 75, 84-5,122,125,128,130,136,137,141, 143-4,145,147,148,150,152,153, 154,156-8,162-3,165,167,169,177, 178,192,194,197 culture as bearer of 83 faith schools 35,158 and historiography 12,169 inclusivism and exclusivism 162 see also inclusivism interpretations of in Islam 18 Latin in Byzantium 62 linked to church and national identity in Poland 118 new-found 31 and reason 157,177,178 see also Benedict XVI and religion in Britain 35 and secular values 153 see also Unitarians Faltin, L. l fascism 6, 7,136,173 Faustus 144 federation 75-6,138,173 Fenzi, E. 44, 45 film 11, 29-39, 83, 92 screenplays 30 Finland 69, 70 Finzi, R. 44 Florence 11, 40-6, 48-9, 50-2 Flower Communion 145-6,151-2 see also Unitarianism Focolare 41 France 21-3, 25,45-6, 68, 71, 79-SO, 85, 138,157,169,171-2,187 freedom of speech 25,153 Freud, S. 95 Friedlander, S. 90, 95,100,107 fundamentalism 2,12, 20, 25, 27, 30-7, 74, 76,156,159,166 Fürst, L.R. 40 Callus 119 Gardette, P. 11, 53 Garibaldi 46, 47 Gaul 172 Geary, PJ. 173 Geddes, A. 20 Gelasius I (Pope) 177 Gellner, E. 118 Germany 3, 5, 7, 33, 70, 73, 75, 79, 80, 96, 108,110-13,120,136-7,140,156, 169,171-2,187

Germanization 137 ghetto 108,112,114 Gillespie, P. 1, 4, 5, 6 Gilroy, P. 20, 36, 37 Gladstone, W. 47 Goethe, J.W. 174 Gouillard, J. 66 governance 50, 52,176 government 23-4, 26, 27, 41-2, 50, 75, 116,130,157,181 Britain 35, 45-48 in Europe 27 intergovernmental bodies 17, 81 see also non-governmental organizations Islamic lobby 24 Italy 41 Poland 109,112-15,124,125,128-9 Soviet 70, 73 Turkey 23 world 74-5 secular in Europe 154,168 Gowin, J. 125 Grabbe, H. 10 Greece 10, 53, 55, 66, 67, 78,135,139, 157,194,195 Griffiths, R. 30 Gruber, R.E. 93 Guattari, F. 38, 39, 41, 48 Guicciardini, P. 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 49 Gulag 176, 197 Gypsies 110 Habermas, J. 178 Haddad, Y.Y. 20 Halbwachs, M. 89-91, 95-96,105,106 Halík, T. 13,192 Habsburgs 136,172 Hartheim, Castle 148 Hartman, G.H. 107 Haspl, Dr 148,149 see also Unitarianism Havel, V. 3,149,151 Hebrew 66,116,165,166 Hegel, G.W.F. 9 Hehir, B.J. 171 Hellenism 16, 53 Heraclius 56 Herder, J.G. 173 Heschel, A.J. 180 Hewett, P. 144 Hick, J. 162 Hickman, M. 20 Hilarión, A. 80, 82, 86, 87 Himmelfarb, G. 170 Hinduism 1,154,181,185 historiography 12-13,102,170,178

Index Hoare, P. 43 Hobbes, T. 172,173 Hobsbawm, E. 173 Hoffman, E. 100, 101 Holland 25 see also Netherlands Holocaust 12, 89-116, 179 see also Shoah Holt, E. 42, 43, 45 Horkheimer, M. 172 Hornsby-Smith, M. 120 Hourani, A. 14 Hughes, K. 10 human rights 7-8, 22, 26, 75-6, 113, 116,140,160,176 humanism 86-7,141,147,149-50,168, 193 humanists 13 Hume, D. 171 Hunermann, P. 197 Hungary 80, 85, 118,135,154 Huntingdon, S. 171 Huss, J. 151 Hussites 136, 137,151 Huysmans, J. 20 identity construction of 89, 117-19 crisis of 25, 98 EU and Turkey 17 global 22 hyphenated 36 memory and 12, 89,107, 109 multiple 1, 6 national 2,4,98,107-11,118-22,125, 130, 143, 145-6, 153 religion and 31 ideology 2, 5, 6, 9,11,17, 23, 25,28, 32, 76, 78, 79, 90, 100, 119,120, 121, 122, 124,125,126,128,129,130,132,133, 140, 157, 158, 167, 172, 173, 186, 187, 188, communist 106 extremist 18 of globalization 86 see also jurisdictionalism Marxist 117-18 secularist 197 Ignatieff, M. 4 immigration 11,17, 20, 25, 31, 40, 51 inclusivism 2, 12,159,161,162,163, 166,167 see also Rahner incomers 52 institution 3-7,11,15,16,17,21,23,258, 50, 72, 73, 76-9, 81, 86, 91-2,100, 106,112, 113,115, 117, 122-5, 128,

225

129,132,138,143,144,154, 157,172, 176, 181, 182, 184, 186, 187 institutionalization of Islam in Europe 22, 24 of communities in Britain 36 see also multiculturalism Polish in diaspora 91 integration 1-7,10-12,15, 32, 61, 81, 82, 128, 130, 131, 134, 170, 173, 193 intellectuals 3, 15, 42, 72, 91, 111, 121, 122,124, 127,168 intelligentsia (Polish Catholics) 124 intercultural relations 2, 25, 51, 113, 195 interfaith relations 2,10,12, 50, 83, 84, 159,160,166,180 intergovernmental bodies 17, 81 interreligious relations 13, 53, 67, 81, 82,159, 163,179, 180-2,184-91,195 Iran 22, 51 Iraq 17 war on 26 Ireland 20, 36, 46, 47, 48,117 Islam 3, 5, 8, 10, 11,14-39, 51, 61, 76, 83, 84, 86, 87,120,154,156,157,161, 163, 170, 179, 181, 183, 190,193 as perceived challenge to Europe 11, 14 Caliphate 23 consultation (ijma) 23 European 27 cultural revolution 28 moderate 27, 87 Islamization 17, 23 Islamism 17, 22, 193 Moslems 57, 61, 62, 66 ummah 17, 18, 22, 28 see also British Muslims Israel 45, 53, 54, 62, 66, 74, 92,113,165, 170, 182, 188, 189, 190, 195 Italy 15,16, 21,40,41,42,43,44,45,47, 49, 50, 85, 144, 169, 187 Jacoby, D. 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 63, 64 Jainism 181 Jedwabne 90, 93, 95, 96, 103,106, 109 Jenkins, K. 177 Jerusalem 56,105,165,182 Jews 9,10,11,19, 32, 37, 38, 44, 45, 47, 49, 54-66, 70, 72-5, 89-96, 98,101, 103,106-16,120,128,144,154,161, 164-6,169,170,179,180-3,186-91, 193-5,197 anti-Jewish 56, 74, 106 antisemitism 32,64,70,73,74,90,91, 93, 94, 95,104, 116, 128,189 Hassidism 182

226

Index

Jewish-Catholic relations 166 Jewish-Christian relations 10,166, 188 Jewish-Greek relations 11 Jewishness 93 virtual 93 Jewish-Polish relations 91, 92 Klezmer music 109 Joffe, Lord 158 John Paul E l, 129,131,163,169 on Europe 168 generation JPII132 see also Wojtyla, K. Jordanova, L. 178 Judaism 12,53^8,60-7,70,74-6,87,91, 159,161,164-5, 167,181-3,188 anti-Judaism 74 Judeans 182 Judeophobia 64, 66 rabbis 26,161,165, 166,182 synagogue 26, 37, 55, 56, 62, 63, 75, 106,116 Torah 161,165 jurisdictionalism 78, 79, 88 Kaliningrad 76, 85 Kant, E. 16,177,178 Kapralski, S. 7,12, 89 Karaites 165 Kasimow, H. 180 Kapralski, S. 12, 89 Kasper, Cardinal 80 Katzenstein, PJ. 2,10, 21, 168 Kazimierz 110 Kelly, R. 158,173 Kepel, G. 17 Kerry, P. 5,12, 13,168 Khatami, S.M. 51 Khazars 57 Klausen, J. 27 Knigge, A.F. 178 Konrad paradigm 97 Krajewski, S. 13,179 Kranz, T. 115 Krzeminski, I. 93 Kselman, T. 15 Kubik, J. 119,123 Kumar, K. 14,15,16 Kundera, M. 97 Kundera paradigm 97 Kureishi, H. 30, 32, 33, 35, 38, 39 Kymlicka, W. 21, 25 LaCapra, D. 105,107 Laffan, B. 7 Lahore 32 laity 14, 72,144 Lambruschini, R. 43, 44, 49

landmarks 16 landscapes 91 Lanzman, C. 95, 96 Lapidus, I.M. 19 latin 20, 61, 62, 66, 85,123,130,136 Latvia 85 Lebov, R.N. 20 Lefebvrists 156 legislation 4, 7, 24, 45, 54, 55, 56, 81, 130 132 153 legitimation 3, 4,19, 24, 33, 54, 57, 58, 62, 76, 85, 87, 90, 99,119,154,173, 185,188,189,190,194 Lekapenos, Romanos I 57 Leo m (Pope) 56 Levi, P. 105 Lévinas, E. 182,189-190 Levinskaya, I. 11, 68, 74 liberalism 2,11, 21, 25, 30-5, 39, 42-5, 47-52, 72-3, 77, 84, 91,124,125-8, 130-3,140,147-8,156,159,170,176, 179,197 liberal-democratic 86, 87 liberalization 127 rationalism and 173,185-6,173 religion and 30,86,121,125-6,130-1 secularism and 35 Lindh, J.W. 30 Lithuania 85 liturgy 55, 58, 68, 69, 74, 85,147,183 Livingstone, D.N. 170 lobby 24 Locke, J. 172, 173 London 33, 45-6, 48, 79 bombings 29-30, 32 London-Irish 36 Lubac, H. de 69 Lycka, M. 12, 134 Lyttelton, A. 42 Maastricht Treaty 101 Mach, Z. 7,12,116,117,120 Madeley, J. 15 Madia, R. 45 Maier, C.S. 105,107 Malachi 175 Mandaville, P. 22 Manent, P. 12,169,170,172-4 Mann, L. 55 Manning, B. 36 Manuel ÏÏ 156 Maquay, J.L. 44 Marianski, J. 126 marketplace 196 Maronite 80 martyrdom 48, 49, 75,115 Marxism 90,117,121,186-^8

Index Marxist-Christian dialogue 187 as a 'quasi-religion' 186 Masaryk, T.G. 12, 135-8, 141, 143 Masons 74 Máximos 58, 63 Mayall, G. 21 Mazowiecki, T. 124 Mazzini, G. 43 McCrone, D. 98 McKitterick, R. 174 media 24,29,39, 75-6,82-3, 92,95,101, 103, 115, 124-5, 129, 132 mediaeval 169, 176 Melchizedek 54 Melzer, A.M. 171 memory 4,6, 7,39, 68, 70, 72, 73, 76,91, 92, 95, 96, 97, 99, 105, 108, 110, 112, 113, 114, 118, 121, 168, 175, 180 banalization 103 collective 90 communities of 71, 107, 115,116 erasure of 90 see also amnesia Holocaust 12, 89, 93, 94, 98, 100-4, 106-7,115 and identity 89, 107, 109 see also Kundera-paradigm landscape of 98 memorialization 106 memorials 101, 112, 114, 115, 116 nostalgic 71 politicization of 90 repressed 112 sacralization 103 sites of 71, 73, 100 see also identity Messiah 58 messianism 9, 54 Midrash 165 migration 5, 78, 81, 171 Miklosich, F. 63 Milchman, A. 105, 107 Mill, J.S. 47 Mishnah 166 mission 9, 37, 79, 131, 135, 168, 191 Misztal, B.A. 99, 100 Mitrokhin, N. 71, 73 Mittler, P. 11, 40 mobilization 20, 90, 124 mobility 6, 35, 118, 122 modernity 11,18, 53, 71, 87, 88, 89, 99, 100, 133, 168, 170, 174, 175, 178 Modood, T. 20, 33 monotheism 162, 190 morals 4, 9,19, 31, 50, 60, 73, 78, 81, 83, 84, 86, 87, 98,107, 111, 113,114,122-

227

4, 127, 129, 130, 132, 137, 138, 140, 149, 172-1, 176, 178 moral education 83, 84, 111 moral monopoly 122, 130, 132, 163 political 123 Mormons 166, 181 Morocco 20 Morrow, P. 12, 156 Moses 53, 58, 195 Muhammad 19, 25, 156 multiculturalism 11, 25, 30, 31, 32, 36, 37, 38, 39, 88, 101, 113, 133,168, 170 mysticism 61, 144, 145, 150,162, 197 mystery 160, 161, 190, 192, 194, 195 myth 36,74,90,91,97,98,103,104,108, 109, 118, 136, 139, 158, 162, 173 mythologization 95, 98, 118, 121 Naldini, M. 49 Nashville 66 nationalism 2, 4, 38, 72, 73, 74, 75, 78, 90,118, 128, 146,173 Eastern European 119 and Masaryk 138 in Poland 120, 121, 131 nationality 88, 156 supranationality 22 nationhood 99 nation-state 118,119,120,124,171,175 Nazism 66, 70, 73, 75, 95,107,113,136, 148, 150, 166 neoconservatism 3, 9 Nestorians 55, 65 Netherlands 171 New Age 21 New Religious Movements 130 Nicaea (Council of) 58 Nielsen, H.O. 3, 15 Nietzsche, F. 167, 196-7 9/11 terror attacks 27 non-governmental organizations 112, 113, 115 Nora, P. 71, 105, 107 Norway 154 Novick, P. 95, 102 O' Donnell, D. 31 Oikonomides 56, 57 Orientalism 14, 35 Orthodoxy 5, 10, 11, 37, 53-5, 57-63, 66-S8, 120, 144, 161, 165, 178-9, 183 other/ness 16, 65 Ottomans 5, 14, 61, 62, 64, 66, 120 Ottoman Empire 14 Outhwaite, W. 99, 103 Pagden, A. 16 Pahl, R. 41, 51 Pakistan 20, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35

228

Index

Palamas, G. 61 Paleólogos 156 see also Manuel n Palestine 26 pan-Germanism 136 papacy 1,12,15, 45-7, 80-4,123,129, 132,136,147,156-61,163-4,168,169, 170,175-7,181-2 Passerini, L. 16 Patocka, J. 12,135,139-41 Pekar, J. 137 Pennsylvania 188 Persia 55, 56 Philaret Hegumen see Bulekov philosophy 13,15,16, 31, 51, 86,13940,170,179^80,185-6,190 as a religion 185 of history 12, 21,169 of religion 183 Philpott, D. 3,9,169,170,173,174,176, 177 phyletism 88 Piccini, G. 49 Pieris, A. 161 Pieronek, T. (Bishop) 128 Pinto, D. 101,102 Pius IX, Pope 45 pluralism 35, 55,120,124,162,166-7, 170,176,180 Poland 10,12, 89-99,101-33,144,154, 156,169,173,180,182,185,186,187, 188,190 abortion debate 126-7,128,130 Dachau 148 Galicia 114 Polish-German relations 114 Polish-Jewish relations 12,89, 92,93, 94, 95,102,103,104,108,112,114 Polishness 91,103,120,122,132 policy-makers 3, 7, 9,10 postmodernism 27,90,95,99,100,102, 120,122,124,133,148,196 Prasad, U. 11, 29, 30, 35 presentism 171 privatization 13, 21, 22 Prodi, R. 15, 81 proselytism 55, 85 Prussia 43,120,173 Quran 19 Rabello, A.M. 54, 56 racism 32, 34-6, 39,114 Radio Maryja 128 opposition to the EU 131 Rahner, K. 162 inclusivist theory 163 Ranasinha, R. 33 Rastafarians 166

Ratzinger, J. 1, 5, 8,12,156-77 Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith 160 imminent eschatology 9 referendum 3,127,131 Reformation 28,137,144 Regensburg 83,156,167 see also Benedict XVI Reed, C.M. 145 religion 1-19, 21-7, 33-5, 37, 40-2, 44, 46, 50, 53-5, 58, 59, 61, 62, 65, 66, 69, 70, 74, 76, 82, 84, 86, 87, 90,102,103, 105,107, 111, 118,120,121,123,125, 130-3,135,141,144-8,153,154,15767,169-75,178-88,190-3,195-7 federal law on (Russia) 75 freedom 171 influence on culture 14 manifestations of 143 meanings of 20 multiculturalism and 31 privatization of 21, 217 representation of 31 quasi-religion 186-8 religiosity 21, 23, 111, 121, 122,130, 162,191,192,196,197 as source of controversy 46, 84, 95, 176 see also education remembrance 90, 94, 95,100,103 rhizome 11, 38, 39, 42, 48, 52,175,177 Ricasoli, B. 42, 44 Ridolfi, M.C. 42, 43, 44, 49, 50 Roman Empire 55, Holy 172 Romania 5, 63, 78,154,169 Romaniote communities 57 Rosenberg, A. 105,107 Rosenzweig, F. 189 Rushdie, S. 30 Russia 5,10-11,12,68-88,118,120,130 Moscow 72, 73, 76, 79, 80, 81, 83, 88 as 'Third Rome' 81 Russians 73, 75, 79, 85, 88 Smolensk 76, 85 see also Soviet Union; Christianity, Russian Orthodox Sacks, J. 161 sacralization 102,103 Sageman, M. 18 Salvadori, R.G. 44, 45, 49, 50 Sandford, C.W. 49 Santer, J. 170 Sassen, S. 20 Second Vatican Council (Vatican ÏÏ) 69, 108,159,160,176

Index Schlegel, F. 173 Schmid, S. 30 Schmidt-Leukel, P. 162 Schneidau, H. 186 school 18, 21, 27, 35, 49, 50, 60, 65, 76, 87, 92, 108,109, 110, 111,113, 116, 125, 127, 147, 148, 158,172 Schuman, R. 170 scripture 22 Seaton, M. 30 sect 43, 58, 72, 187 sectarianism 87, 146 secularism 1-10, 13, 15-17, 20-24, 26, 27, 34, 41, 76, 82, 86-8,121,123,144, 149,153-9,167,169,170-5,178,1924, 196, 197 Sennet, R. 89, 90, 96, 97 Serbia 78 Sergius, Institute of (Paris) 69 7/7 bombings in London 29, 32, 39 see also London Shafir, M. 98 Shakman-Hurd, E. 23 Sharf, A. 54, 56 Sharia 23, 25 Shiism 18 Shintoism 181 Shmemann, A. 68, 69, 70, 71 Shnirelman, V. 74 Shoah 93, 95-6, 100-2, 179 Siena 48 Signer, M. 188 Sikhism 181 Silvestri, S. 1, 5,11,14,17,20,22,23,24 Slovakia 3, 135 Smith, W.C. 184,185 socialism 5, 8, 118, 122, 123, 126, 127, 128, 130, 140 socinians 144 sociology 10,41, 89,93,94, 95,141,169, 182, 183 Solomos, J. 20 Soloveitchik, J. 178 Soto, F. 51 Soviet Union 69, 73 see also Russia Spain 16, 85 Spini, G. 42, 43, 44 spirituality 12, 61, 66, 75, 138-40, 143, 150-4 Spivak, G.G. 105 Stachowski, Z. 105 Stalin, J.V. 72, 75 Stanislaus, St 119 Starr, J. 54, 57, 58, 63 Steinlauf, M.C. 89, 92, 97,110, 111

229

Stenger, M.A. 186 Strasbourg 80,131 Strejcek 148 subsidiarity 11 Sunnism 18 supranationality 5 Sutcliffe, T. 158 Switzerland 43, 44, 45, 46 Swiss-Italian 43 symbols 6, 7, 12,17,18, 21, 22, 31, 35, 36, 71, 72, 92,101,116,117,119,120, 122,123,128,129,130,131,151,152, 193 syncretism 180 Syria 61 Szacka, B. 105,107 Szczebrzeszyn 108 Sztompka, P. 98 Talbot, A.M.N. 62, 63, 64 Tapper, R. 23 Taygetus 59 Temporini, H. 54 terrorism 18, 20, 22, 23, 25, 27 militants (youth) 34 theism 137, 147 theocracy 138,159 theology 2, 9,12,17-19, 22, 50, 58, 612, 64, 68-70, 72, 79, 81, 88, 135-6, 148-9,151, 157,158, 162-3,165-6, 179, 180, 190,194, 197 see also Islamism liberation 159 Orthodox Christian 53, 54, 58, 79, 80 post-Auschwitz and post-Gulag 197 public 159 see also Benedict XVI Unitarian 144,146,148,151,153,154 see also Unitarians 30-year war 171 Tikhon (Metropolitan) 79 see also Bella vin Tillich, P. 187 Todorov, T. 98, 108 Tomka, M. 120 topos 62, 64, 66,194 Toronto 150 totalitarianism 6, 7, 68, 71, 75, 86, 120, 128, 140, 141, 149, 173, 176 tradition 4-5, 7-9,11-16,18, 20, 22, 24, 27-3,32,47, 53-4,60-3, 65-^8, 70, 734, 76, 77, 81-3, 85-9, 103, 108, 115, 116, 120-2,125, 128,130-2,135-7, 141-2,144, 146, 150-1,153-4,165, 168, 173, 177, 180, 182-90 of common education (twelth century) 60

as a diachronic living experience 13 and formation of post-Communist national identity 4 knowledge of 187 monastic 174 see also Unitarians trauma 90,95,98,99,102,103,105,112, 193 Trevelyan, G.M. 47 Tsatos, J. 66 Tudela 65 Turkey 17, 20, 23, 25, 82,156 Turks 18, 23, 61, 62, 63, 172 Turkish-speaking, 18 Ukraine 5, 85,120 Unitarianism 143,144,145,146,147, 148,149,150,151,152,153,154 see also Flower Communion United Kingdom see Britain United Nations (UN) 51 United States (US) 9, 69,143-7,172, Urdu 18 Vatican 1, 21, 41, 45, 69,108,159,160, 163,176 documents Dignitatis humanae 177 Dominus lesus 160-1 Redemptoris Miss/0 161 Nostra aetate 160-11,163-5

see also encyclicals Vidal-Naquet, P. 105,107 Vieusseux, G.P. 43, 44 Wahhabism 18 Waldensians 43, 44, 50 Walesa, L. 130 Walter, B. 20, 80 Walzer, M. 41, 52 Watt, W.M. 19 Webber, M. 114 Weigel, G. 12,168,169,170,173-6 Weinbaum, L. 92, 93 Wendte, C.W. 143 Werbner, P. 20 Westphalia (movement, Peace of) 171 White, G. Il, 12, 78,177 Wilbur, E.M. 144 Williams, C.G. 10 Wojtyla, K. 2 see also John Paul n Wright, M. 2, 7, 11, 29, 30, 36, 177 Wyka, K. 110, 111 Wyszynski, Stefan (Cardinal) 121 xenophobia 86,101, 114, 128, Yugoslavia 79 Zaremba, M. 108 Zionism 75 190 anti-Zionism 190