In 1726, in the tiny town of Berleburg in central Germany, a group of religious radicals began publishing what became one of the most imposing Bible translations of the eighteenth century. Over the next fourteen years, their leader, Johann Friedrich Haug, orchestrated the release of over 6,000 pages in eight folio volumes. Steeped in mystical speculations and spiritualist excess, this Bible was the publishing high point of a heterodox religious underground that thrived in the early eighteenth century, when the reformers known as Pietists began to erode the foundations of a Lutheran Church they saw as hopelessly hamstrung by orthodoxy. In the name of such reform, the Berleburger Bible project sought to replace the standard vernacular Bible with a new one, better suited to the religious sensibilities of the age. Through translation, the “one divine meaning” of the Bible would finally become apparent.
Not all readers, however, appreciated these efforts. Indeed, the gut reaction of the religious orthodoxy might be boiled down to two words: “poison and evil.” Filled with “amazing and erroneous expressions,” the work was, for one reviewer, clearly the work of “fanatics.” To the editor of the Auserlesene Theologische Bibliothek, the best diagnostician of this Bible’s faults was the Enlightenment philosopher Pierre Bayle, whose article “Aaron” lambasted “a certain Bible translation, which he called a ‘cunning and plagiarized’ Version … recalling in the meantime that the simple and ignorant would be able to protect themselves less than the intelligent and knowledgeable.” The Berleburger Bible was not, the editor continued, “a work for all people, in all classes,” and Bayle presumably testified to this. But in making the comparison between the new translation and that other “Bible of the eighteenth century,” Bayle’s 1697 Dictionnaire historique et critique—a work irrevocably tainted for contemporaries by the stains of libertinism and atheism—the editor’s tongue was firmly in his cheek. Few works in the eighteenth century, after all, represented the perils of learned scholarship for the “simple and ignorant” more dramatically than Bayle’s dictionary. The comparison between it and a work of spiritualist prose would, then, seem a piece of rhetorical slight of hand, tarring the Berleburger editors with the same brush of heterodoxy applied to Bayle. In the end, after all, what did Berleburg have to do with Bayle? What could religion have to do with the Enlightenment?
Up until recently, scholars would have answered in near unison, “Nothing.” But in the past ten years, religion has returned to the Enlightenment. While modern scholars have long listened carefully to the complaints of the devout—”that Atheism and Infidelity grow mightily among us”—they have begun, in the last decade, to pay attention to other eighteenth-century voices. The 1758 voice of the Edinburgh Magazine, for example, which declared that “there never perhaps was an age in which religion was so much in fashion among us, as it has long been … [G]reat is the thirst of multitudes after little refined points and particular doctrines of piety.” Or that of The Court Magazine, which proclaimed in 1761 that “there never was an age wherein a thirst after Christian Knowledge more universally prevailed, than the present” and pointed to the “variety of Publications on religious subjects, the crowded assemblies in every place of public worship, and the large increase and multiplicity even of sectaries” as incontrovertible proof. The new attention to such voices is emblematic of a broader shift in the study of the Enlightenment. “Religion itself has returned to the agenda,” one scholar triumphantly declares. Nor is he alone. Rather, as others announce, “it has become almost a commonplace of historiography that … religion remained a force [in the Enlightenment] determining the lives of large sections of the population”; “eighteenth-century religion … has becoming increasingly central to historians’ understanding of the way in which eighteenth-century society functioned”; “religiosity … [was] at the very heart of English intellectual life in the period of the Enlightenment.” Religion, it seems, is back.
This resurrection of religion atop what Horton Davies once described as the “surface of the moon,” a terrain “pock-marked” with the “extinct volcanic craters” of faith, has happened alongside a broad resurgence of interest in religious topics since 1989. The resurgence is apparent across a wide variety of fields. The “New Gospel of Academia” was the October 2000 headline in the Los Angeles Times, which declared religion a “hot field of inquiry” and reported an almost 35 percent increase in membership in the American Academy of Religion since 1994. In 1996, the Ford Foundation added religion to their list of newly funded program areas. In the past five years or so, the Pew Charitable Trust showed its own interest by pouring money into ten “Centers of Excellence”—including the University of Southern California’s Center for Religion and Civic Culture, Princeton’s Center for the Study of Religion, and Yale’s Center for Religion and American Life—that have given religion a prominent institutional face in the academy. In the meantime, the Lilly Endowment’s “Initiative on Religion and Higher Education”—launched in 1989—has, in the words of its evaluators, precipitated a “religious revitalization in the academy.” And it seems that there is some truth to this estimation. The “Religion and Politics” section of the American Political Science Association took off in the early 1990s, while the religion section of the American Sociological Association—begun in 1994—has grown quickly to become one of the larger in the organization. Hent de Vries’ diagnosis of a “return of religion” in contemporary literary theory matches this wider story, and when the hippest of theorists, Gianni Vattimo, declares that “postmodern pluralism has enabled … the recovery of the Christian faith,” we can safely say that religion has found a home in poststructuralism. Perhaps less apocalyptically, historians, too, have pushed religion into the scholarly limelight. The 1990s, commented Clarence Taylor in 1996, “have been a golden age for literature on … African-American religion.” In European history—my own field—the immense and continued popularity of historians such as Peter Brown, Caroline Walker Bynum, and Natalie Zemon Davis testifies to the attraction of pre-modern religion. And even the vaunted nineteenth-century “secularization of the European mind” has fallen on hard times, with scholars such as Margaret Lavinia Anderson declaring the decline of religion after 1800 a fantastic product of “the secularization of scholarship in the twentieth century” rather than a reflection of any real historical trend.
But the debut of religion on the stage of the Enlightenment has been one of the most dramatic moments in this play. After all, more than virtually any other period, the Enlightenment has traditionally been read as the very cradle of the secular world. If, for Owen Chadwick, “the problem of secularization” was “not the same as the problem of enlightenment,” the difference for him was only quantitative, not essential: “Enlightenment was of the few. Secularization is of the many.” Making religion into a cornerstone of the Enlightenment thus tends to raise intriguing and troubling questions about the precise nature of this secularizing vision. Rather than treat this new enthusiasm for matters of the spirit as a mere historiographical corrective to a literature that long left religion to the side, then, this essay will map it onto what I see as a communal discomfort with the usual story about the Enlightenment and the history of modernity. The injection of religion into the Enlightenment, I suggest, is part of a revision of the history of secular society that has sent the very category of the Enlightenment—long defined as a philosophical program whose anti-religious zeal paved the way for our secular present—into great turmoil. Enlightenment and religion, for a variety of reasons, make a difficult marriage. But these difficulties are productive, I argue, for they allow historians to question implicit and explicit understandings of religion and to put pressure on the slippery and often misleading notion of secularization. Recent scholarship helps point the way, I propose, to more expansive and rigorous approaches to both “Enlightenment” and “religion.” In so doing, it helps to address some of the enigmas of modern secularization. And it may show that in fact Bayle had quite a bit to do with Berleburg.
To begin exploring the difficulties of wedding religion to the Enlightenment, we can begin with a question and a story:
How far could theologians go … in allowing the use of [scientific] techniques in matters sexual? The abbé [Jean-Antoine] Nollet and [Lazzaro] Spallanzi published an account of their experiments using condoms on male frogs, Expérience pour servir à l’histoire de la génération (1785); this, apparently, was allowable. But in 1777 the theologians had had Dr. Guilbert de Préval banned from practicing medicine for his experiment to show how similar precautions in human beings constituted a preservative against venereal infection—hardly surprising, since, in full-bottomed wig and chemise, he gave a personal demonstration with two whores in a public session presided over by the duc d’Orléans.Packed with similarly precious stories, John McManners’ monumental Church and Society in Eighteenth-Century France sketches the religious complexities of the age. His affair of the condom reveals the Enlightenment dispute with religion in all its perverse glory. “In the age of Enlightenment,” the Catholic Church was challenged by “not only educated laymen, but also by the more intelligent churchmen.” Hand in hand, the intelligent abbé Nollet and the good doctor Préval battered the irrational sanctions of the church, the first slyly, the other with bold gusto. Shagging two whores in front of the duc d’Orléans was not just fun science, it was also good science and, moreover, impious science. Antinomian delight paired with an appreciation for sober fact: the combination was a lethal injection for a church stuck in its ways. If the eighteenth century was the “golden era of the French Church,” it was also the “autumn season … before the leaves began to fall and winter came.”
McManners’ greatness lies in his dissection of this fecund, decaying landscape of the French Catholic Church. In its golden age, the French Church was blessed with an educated and motivated clergy, high levels of lay piety, and splendid church ritual. But its roots were rotten, ready to break in the storm of revolution that erased the connections between church and state and destroyed the web of authority that had lent so much pomp and power to the Christianity of eighteenth-century France. This was a pious age teetering on the edge of impiety, a baroque castle of religious power whose foundations were melting away. The new science, the new sex, the cutting wit, the creeping doubts, the social conscience, the radical politics: these forces of the Enlightenment prepared the church for its dissolution in the whirlwind of 1789. The “thinkers of Enlightenment”—in McManners’ story—were the bad conscience of the Gallican Church. Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot: they represent a self-evidently irreligious concept called enlightenment. The “age of Enlightenment” mocked religion and finally made it irrelevant. The “State and the majority went their way,” leaving only a trace of religion behind.
Church and Society offers rich fare, one of the few texts under review whose “religious and intellectual history … frequently engages with cultural history,” as B. W. Young has commented. But if rich, it is also a melancholy fare. Although McManners clearly would like to put religion back into the eighteenth century, his story offers a church whose own flaws lead to an outcome both depressing and inevitable. In a way, he just flips Peter Gay’s famously optimistic sense that the Enlightenment purged the modern world of religious poison, echoing Gay’s vision of “the desiccation of Christian mysteries after a century of criticism” but inverting the emotional stakes. In both, the eighteenth century is the cradle of secularization, the staging ground for a modernity shorn of its religious character. “Words whose reverberation previously had an indescribable force … have now lost all significance,” wrote one commentator in 1793; we can imagine these words included “faith,” “spirit,” “resurrection,” and “sin,” among others. In the classic historiography of the Enlightenment, freedom of religion entailed freedom from religion, for better or worse. The great church historian Johann Mosheim saw the dark side, gloomily declaring eighteenth-century Europe blighted by those “who … aim at the total extinction of all religion.” “To destroy every established institution has long been the order of the day,” complained the Anti-Jacobin Review in 1799: “Every thing must bow down to the goddess, Reason.” This language of despair did not die in the nineteenth century. We can find it in the oft-quoted words of Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer, for whom the Enlightenment “behaves toward things as a dictator toward men,” it “liquidates” them. Its idolatry of reason invents a mythology based on annihilation. Whether optimistic or pessimistic, then, the old consensus saw an Enlightenment forcing religion into the corners of human experience and destroying the stories it told about nature, society, and mankind.
In doing so, the Enlightenment made modernity “legitimate.” Banishment of religion guaranteed modernity’s freedom from the shackles of the past, and allowed it to develop its own legitimate and authoritative character. Modern is modern, in a sense, to the degree that it is secular. This intimate bond between the Enlightenment and secularization forces all efforts to put religion back into the Enlightenment to take a position on the nature of modern, secular society. It is surely not accidental that although the tools to write a “better history” of the Enlightenment have been long available to historians, only now, in the past ten to fifteen years, has religion “been reinstated as a legitimate part of Enlightenment studies.” The rise of a religious politics in the United States and elsewhere has made it crystal clear that the dissipation of religion as an ideological force can in no way be understood as an inevitable consequence of modernity. This new sense of religion’s potency raises serious doubts about secular modernity. More important here, it raises anxieties—which permeate the new scholarship on eighteenth-century religion—about the ostensible birthplace of secular modernity, the Enlightenment.
We can find the origin of these anxieties, somewhat arbitrarily, in the once-cheerful “disaggregation” of the Enlightenment proposed by Roy Porter and Mikuláš Teich, who stressed in their 1982 book The Enlightenment in National Context the “many different forms the Enlightenment took in vastly different … environments.” The enormous influence of this book has made Gay’s hieratic opening line to The Rise of Modern Paganism—”there were many philosophes in the eighteenth century, but there was only one Enlightenment”—highly suspect, not merely because of its reifying tendencies but also because of its treatment of religion. Indeed, for most of Porter’s commentators, religion was the dominant qualification of the kind of Enlightenment peculiar to distinct geographical areas. In England, for example, “Enlightenment goals … throve … within piety.” In Germany, the “Aufkärer … worked within religious and theoretical traditions which they amended but did not reject.” In the Netherlands, the Enlightenment functioned “as much in the name of moral and spiritual rejuvenation as political or philosophical progress.” In Austria, “the closeness of the Reform Catholics to the main assumptions of the Enlightenment is obvious.” In Switzerland, “the scientific or rational and the transcendental views of life were perfectly compatible.” Cheerfully distinct, national contexts offered a way to put religion back into the Enlightenment.
In some cases, this cheer remains. As even its title indicates, David Sorkin’s 1994 effort to unify the two faces of Germany’s premier Jewish philosopher, Moses Mendelssohn, the “Socrates of Berlin and … Moses of Dessau,” is relatively optimistic about the reconciliation of religion and the Enlightenment. Sorkin’s Moses Mendelssohn and the Religious Enlightenment describes the Jewish Haskalah, reform Catholicism, and progressive Protestantism as communally in search of a middle way between faith and doubt, not “a departure from previous … tradition but an effort to renew it, not rupture but self-conscious continuity.” But in recent years, the story of the Enlightenment and religion has grown bleaker, and scholars seem uncomfortable with conciliatory language. McManners’ elegiac tone is only one indication of a general anxiety about a range of implicit and explicit questions. What would it mean for the idea of the Enlightenment if it came to include religion? Can a category defined by its opposition to superstition, faith, and revelation survive when this opposition disappears? What would a reconciliation of the Enlightenment and religion mean to the story of modernity’s origins?
Such questions hide inside the modern scholarship on the Enlightenment and religion and lend it its particular pathos. The category of enlightenment itself seems shaky, as if incapable of surviving the introduction of religion without some reduction in power. The recent revival of Isaiah Berlin’s “Counter-Enlightenment” is, I believe, a symptom of these uncertainties. If the Enlightenment held dear the familiar principles of “universality, objectivity, rationality,” Berlin’s largely German Counter-Enlightenment insisted on the particularity of truth and the “impotence of reason to demonstrate the existence of anything.” Fiery passion, commitment to divine inspiration, and insistence on the primacy of faith and the irrational more generally: Johann Herder and Johann Hamann, later Edmund Burke and Joseph de Maistre, held these standards high in the battle against the coldness of reason. Newer research has reached beyond Germany and made the Counter-Enlightenment a general feature of eighteenth-century Europe. In a minor key, C. D. A. Leighton has argued that the Counter-Enlightenment is “more deserving of study” than its rationalistic opposite, precisely because it is so poorly defined. More significantly, B. W. Young’s 1998 Religion and Enlightenment in Eighteenth-Century England has unearthed an English Counter-Enlightenment inhabited by the followers of François Fénelon, William Law, and John Wesley, a heterogeneous countertradition that took shape precisely around its opposition to Newtonianism and rational religion. Against the Enlightenment “clerical culture” in the England of George II (1727–1760), there grew up a heterodox Counter-Enlightenment that promoted a “mystical, visionary, and essentially biblical” form of eclectic theology. In all of these cases, the Counter-Enlightenment allows its authors both to tell a story of an eighteenth-century religion untarnished by the patina of decay and also to salvage the traditionally rationalist idea of enlightenment from the challenge of religion. But its effects are profoundly “pathetic,” for the Enlightenment that results is a failure. Even if the modernity of the Enlightenment is preserved, the efficacy of the Enlightenment in actually creating this modernity is denied. Tragedy persists, in other words, in an Enlightenment whose rationalist aspirations fell short of their mark, and fell victim to religion, irrationalism, and enthusiasm.
The pathos of the Enlightenment does not depend on tragedy. Irony works just as well in the new stories of the Enlightenment and religion. It is not accidental, for example, that the supreme ironist Edward Gibbon is the centerpiece of J. G. A. Pocock’s 1999 vision of effective if unsecular “clerical and conservative” Enlightenments in England. Pocock’s “ecology” of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire does many things in its first two volumes, and will do many more in the volumes to come. But in addition to the marvelously rich materials that Pocock uses to breathe life into the work of scholarship—the overlapping contexts of Gibbon’s life, travels, and publishing—Barbarism and Religion also articulates a strongly ironic sense of Enlightenments whose development were “contained within a context of religious diversity, establishment and dissent.” Gibbon’s Enlightenments were not instinctively anti-religious: they “had nothing … of the riformatore” and did not conceal a “clandestine irreligiosity.” Instead, Gibbon’s tools of erudite analysis, developed within “the culture … of that liberal Protestantism that was seeking to ally belief with criticism and faith with scepticism,” took him to unexpected places. Like Protestants more generally, Gibbon replaced “the pursuit … [with] the history of theology” without meaning to.
The ironic separation of intentions and outcomes is not unique to Gibbon’s Enlightenments. Indeed, it permeates a number of Pocock’s Enlightenments, which include, among others, a Protestant Enlightenment, an Utrecht Enlightenment, a Scottish Enlightenment, a Swiss Enlightenment, an Arminian Enlightenment, and an Anglican Enlightenment. Such diversity can be jarring—indeed, it seems that virtually any substantial adjective might have an Enlightenment in the eighteenth century—but it is a natural consequence when the Enlightenment is purged of the drive to create a secular modernity. No longer does the Enlightenment have the unified character it had when its great opponent was religion. Once religion is incorporated, in other words, it begins to divide the Enlightenment into thinly sliced wedges of coherence. The ultimate irony of Pocock’s Enlightenments is that they can be defined as such only by virtue of their witting or unwitting participation in the general trend of “diminishing spiritual authority, or reconciling it with that of civil society, by the conversion of theology into history.” If, as Knud Haakonssen argued in a self-conscious extrapolation from Pocock, “the strong modernising drive that we identify with the Enlightenment” was not intentionally irreligious, at least not in England, still its outcome was renewed secularism. What was a tragic failure in Berlin’s story is an ironic success in Pocock’s. The sense of loss persists nonetheless, for it is a success unhoped for by the participants in the Enlightenments, a consequence of their own failure to see where their tools would take them.
Although recent scholarship has tried hard, in other words, to detach the Enlightenment from irreligiosity, the story of Enlightenment secularization proves very difficult to shed. On the one hand, the presence of religion seems to diminish the power of the Enlightenment. On the other, the resulting Enlightenment still retains a fundamentally secularizing power. Given these difficulties, it is not surprising that we find a move afoot to discard the Enlightenment altogether from the history of the eighteenth century. If so much work must be expended to preserve an Enlightenment (and Pocock’s fragmented Enlightenments certainly demand Herculean scholarly labors), perhaps, as Jonathan Clark has argued in an influential series of polemics, the Enlightenment “can no longer be used as a reliable and agreed term of historical explanation … [or even] as a shorthand signifier of an accepted body of authors and ideas.” Perhaps the “unified project” called the Enlightenment is a “fiction” that needs to be forgotten and, with it, all of its usual baggage: secularization, modernization, liberalism, freedom of religion and thought.
If we do so, an account of eighteenth-century religion doubtless becomes easier. By discarding the Enlightenment, Clark’s English Society, 1660–1832 can offer a compelling story of the eighteenth-century English confessional state, a hybrid church-state whose Protestant constitution dominated England from the Restoration until its quick dissolution with the repeal of the Corporation and Test Acts in 1828 and the Reform Bill in 1832. The hegemonic church, Clark argues, dominated England during the eighteenth century. It guaranteed the authoritative hierarchy of the state. It even sanctioned opposition to it, for the “central core” of the radical critique of society was founded in “religious heterodoxy,” not anti-religious sentiment. The dismissal of the Enlightenment is not incidental to this new ubiquity of religion. Instead, excluding the Enlightenment evacuates the landscape of what was traditionally understood as the force of irreligion, leaving religion its absolute freedom.
But it is precisely this freedom that makes Clark’s work so problematic. For surely such a stable and comprehensive system could not vanish virtually overnight in the late 1820s. Whatever the virtue in Clark’s polemics against comfortable stories of a secular and enlightened England, it works against him here, at least, where the “sudden collapse” of the ancien régime becomes virtually inexplicable. Even if secularization—understood as a “long-term process by which a disappearance of religious ties, attitudes to transcendence, expectations of an afterlife … is driven onward in both private and daily public life”—is a thorny concept, Clark’s easy dismissal of it comes at considerable explanatory cost. In essence, Clark has to pay the price for his own historical nominalism, for his insistence that the Enlightenment and secularization are simply figments of the historiographical imagination. Ridding the historiography of accepted categories has its pleasures, but pleasure alone does not justify such pruning. Certainly, it is wholly irrelevant that “eighteenth-century Englishmen had no sense of living through” the Enlightenment and “were unaware of a social process later designated ‘secularisation.'” The very discipline of history, after all, was built on the insight that people participate in larger processes of which they are individually quite unaware. Distaste for categories is no argument against their usage.
But we can take from Clark a real question: can we make the Enlightenment into a useful category, one capacious enough to comment on the peculiar forms of religious life that inhabited the eighteenth century? To do so, it seems crucial to move the Enlightenment outside the exclusive ambit of philosophy. The contemporary literature has done this in a few ways, not least by pushing France to the periphery of the discussion. Indeed, for Pocock, Clark, Sorkin, and most other researchers, the French Enlightenment is the great counterexample. It is the location of what Pocock calls the “cosmopolitan” Enlightenment, the movement whose idol was the Encylopédie and whose god was philosophy. With some notable exceptions, French historians have tended to absent themselves from the recent literature on religion. The exceptions are not insignificant: Suzanne Desan’s work on lay religion and revolutionary politics, Timothy Tackett’s examination of the politics of the 1791 Ecclesiastical Oath, Dale Van Kley’s longstanding efforts to link Jansenism to the “desacralization” of the French monarchy, David A. Bell’s most recent connection of revolutionary nationalism to Catholic educational and missionary activities, among others. But more than anywhere else, the Enlightenment in France is still understood as fundamentally anticlerical and, in a connected way, fundamentally philosophical. That Bell’s only index entry under “Enlightenment” is a reference to the heading “philosophes” is a token of this deeper assumption, one that makes the union of the French Enlightenment and religion very difficult to sustain.
For the move away from philosophy does not just create a new geography of the Enlightenment, it also gives it a whole new intellectual and cultural content. Thus Gibbon is interesting to Pocock not just as an ironist but as an advocate of erudition over philosophy. Erudition “did not lead to the intellect’s sovereignty over its environment, but rather to its immersion in it.” By stressing erudition, Pocock demotes philosophy to a mere component of the Enlightenment, other components of which might include religion and religious scholarship. And this demotion is clearly crucial for Pocock’s own disaggregating project: once the essential link between philosophy and the Enlightenment is broken, enlightenments are free to multiply.
Jonathan Israel’s 2001 Radical Enlightenment: Philosophy and the Making of Modernity, 1650–1750 is clearly concerned about this demotion, not least owing to his desire to overcome the growing sense, as John Robertson has recently put it, that “the Enlightenment … never … existed.” Philosophy, in Israel’s amazing and wide-ranging book, glues together an Enlightenment threatened by the fragmentations of Porter and Pocock. It is the key to the “making of modernity,” and, unsurprisingly, religion has little place in this story. Enlightenment philosophy “overthrew theology’s age-old hegemony” and “eradicated magic and belief in the supernatural from Europe’s intellectual culture.” The Moses of the “radical Enlightenment” was Baruch Spinoza, the secret figure crucial “to any proper understanding of Early Enlightenment European thought,” the “supreme philosophical bogeyman” of the eighteenth century. Using Spinoza and Spinozism as benchmarks, Israel’s book reconstructs an aggressively pan-European and anti-Pocockian vision of an Enlightenment at war with religion. As in most wars, there are quislings, in this case the “moderate Enlightenment”—those committed to easing “confessional rigidities … without effectively widening the scope of intellectual freedom”—whose betrayal of Spinozan ideals threatened to derail the modern virtues of secularism, democracy, and science.
Whether his trenchant history is correct or not, Israel sees clearly how important a specifically philosophical Enlightenment is to the traditional story of “rationalization and secularization.” To move beyond this story—as most recent scholarship on the Enlightenment and religion wants to do—means moving beyond the philosophical definition of enlightenment, which, while it has the virtue of simplicity, tends to conceal as much as it shows. Revisionists simply cannot allow enlightenment to be boiled down, as it was by Norman Hampson twenty years ago, to a set of philosophical assumptions about nature, man, law, and providence. This approach both defines too rigidly the questions that can be asked about the Enlightenment and predetermines the kind of stories that can be told about secularization. It is because the Enlightenment is understood as philosophical, in other words, that an irreligious tinge repeatedly clings to it. To overcome this tinge, new ideals of enlightenment must be invented.
But to do this, as all of our authors show us, the problem of secularization must be confronted directly. As an analytical category, secularization plagues the efforts to connect the Enlightenment and religion, not least because the term is so crucial to the self-imagination of the modern age, which has, from the eighteenth century onward, understood itself as surpassing its religious past. If secularization has long been seen as a passive process—Chadwick’s “growing tendency in mankind to do without religion”—perhaps the time has long come to inject some contingency and activity into it. To accomplish this, we need to think not just about enlightenment but also about its partner in the secularizing process, “religion.” For religion has never been left behind, either personally or institutionally. Instead, it has been continually remade and given new forms and meanings over time. Thinking more carefully about religion is a fundamental step in understanding both the Enlightenment and the enigmas of secularization.
“We should not have the word ‘religion’ at all. When and how did it originate?” asked the German aphorist Georg Lichtenberg at the end of the eighteenth century. As his question signals, religion, as such, is an invented category of analysis. And yet, for all of the ink spilt on the question of the Enlightenment, the issue of religion per se has been of little interest to historians. Indeed, historians have been content to play rather loose with this category, assuming, I suppose, that readers instinctively recognize religion, and so explanation would incur the charge of pedantry. However, such looseness has its perils, since it can generate useless statements of fact. Take, for example, this bland, uninformative, yet utterly typical formulation: “Enlightenment religion can be characterised as rational, tolerant and non-mysterious.” Even leaving aside the issue of the Enlightenment, in what sense can “religion” be “characterised as rational”? Was it simply that a concept of “rational religion” was invented? Or were its exponents themselves rational? In the practice of pulpit oratory, were logical syllogisms the rhetoric of choice? Were the articles of faith arranged in a rational manner? Were practices rationalized and devotional exercises (prayer, sacraments, hymns) transformed into acts of the intellect? It might mean all or any of these things, but the term itself tells us little about the operation of religion across social, political, and intellectual boundaries.
Many researchers working on the Enlightenment and religion—especially Jonathan Clark and those followers living in the shadow of what one commentator has gleefully called the “Clarkite revolution”—have casually taken up religion as a “revivified form of political history.” By focusing on ecclesiastical politics, by stressing the “political valence of virtually all eighteenth-century expressions of religion,” volumes such as Religion and Politics in Enlightenment Europe (2001) have put religion onto the historiographical map by unraveling the connections between rational Dissent and Enlightenment politics, between Jansenism and Enlightenment politics, between Pietism and Enlightenment politics, and so on. Thus we now have a fairly rich notion of how religious heterodoxy and political opposition intersected in eighteenth-century England, a sense of how “political activity [became] an extension of … religious and moral principles,” and we can certainly no longer take for granted the simple opposition between rational and religious thought. But at what cost? In the case of Clark, it comes at the cost of flattening religion into a politico-theological pancake, and then dividing it up between the Dissenters and the orthodox. As a consequence, some of the most significant religious transformations of the eighteenth century disappear. Methodism and Evangelicalism, for example, were not signs of religious ferment but instead simple “marks of the Church’s strength and spiritual effectiveness,” because they “inherited almost intact the mainstream ecclesiology and political theology of the Church.” Nor should we distinguish Methodism from Evangelicalism (which would have surprised many late-century Evangelicals!), because they share the same “political theology.” In fundamental ways, Clark has himself taken over the position of such nineteenth-century High Church polemicists as William Van Mildert, later the bishop of Durham, who argued that “the entire fabric of our Constitution, our Laws, and our Government” is completely upheld by what he called “Religion.” Van Mildert’s abstractly political concept of religion has become Clark’s own, and the consequence is, to some extent, impoverishment. Even for Orthodoxy, as Peter Nockles has noted, the “exclusive preoccupation with the political dimension” divests it of “those distinctively ecclesiastical, sacramental, and liturgical preferences” that give it coherence as a “separate theological party.” What results is a substitution: for the “triumph of rationalism and stability,” we get instead a “new kind of stability” grounded in an “age of largely unperturbed and unproblematic faith.”
Reading religion as a form of veiled politics is perfectly legitimate and even unsurprising given that, as Young has noted, “the social and cultural history” (of the English eighteenth century in particular) “has seriously neglected religion.” But if legitimate, it is certainly not the only way to read religion. It is with a sense of “the religious complexity of modernity” that, for example, Leigh Eric Schmidt’s Hearing Things: Religion, Illusion, and the American Enlightenment recently showed how, in the United States, the eighteenth-century sensorium became a zone of conflict about the proper use of the ear and eye. Religion, in Schmidt’s story, is a complicated set of rhetorics (of divine presence, power, and absence) that generates both corporeal and philosophical practices. Alternatively, one might argue, as Darrin McMahon has in his 2001 Enemies of the Enlightenment: The French Counter-Enlightenment and the Making of Modernity, that the “religion” to which the Enlightenment was ostensibly opposed never even existed as such, because it was invented by the strategic arguments against the Enlightenment generated by the turmoil of the French Revolution. If, as Roger Chartier has argued, “the Revolution invented the Enlightenment by attempting to root its legitimacy in a corpus of texts,” then McMahon shows the counter-revolution delegitimizing this Enlightenment by giving it an essentially anti-religious disposition. By “emphasizing the essential antagonism between religion and philosophie,” reactionary clerics and aristocrats reduced the Enlightenment to “the sum of its most radical parts while effacing the manifold religious distinctions drawn throughout the century.” Religion, in this context and for these clerics, would be an equally fantastic category, a fictive entity to whose decline “the Enlightenment” was dedicated.
There is just as little need to embrace the post-1789 definition of religion, of course, as there is to accept the post-1789 definition of the Enlightenment. The choice we make is significant, however, because the kind of “religion” we examine determines the kind of story we can tell about the Enlightenment. The irony, of course, is that the Enlightenment was precisely the period in which the very concept of religion underwent radical change. Before then, “religion” generally described the ritual behavior practiced by Christians, Jews, Muslims, and pagans, and religio was connected to the “careful performance of ritual obligations.” By the beginning of the eighteenth century, however, religion was converted from a set of rituals into a set of propositions: “propositional religion” allowed for the comparison of various religions by juxtaposing the content of their beliefs. Enlightenment comparative religion and its effort to understand the common roots of “religion” (whether in nature, humanity, or God) was born and built atop this foundation. As modern researchers, we can add other visions of religion: an anthropological one focused on ritual, a social one focused on the communities and their practices, an ideological one focused on the doctrinal or theological content, an institutional one that looks at clergy and their churches. Each of these visions shifts not only the kind of relationship possible between the Enlightenment and religion but also the story we can tell about religious transformation.
To see how categories shape stories, we need look no further than that great divide in the study of religion, the one between the “internal” and the “external” visions of religion. In the first case, historians define true religion as an internal state reflecting the individual’s relationship to God. This ideal—developed in the eighteenth century and perfected in the early nineteenth—sees the “relegation [of religion] to the private consciences of individual believers” as the ultimate expression of the religious spirit. The explosion of what Ann Taves has called “theologies of experience” in the eighteenth century could serve as evidence for this shift, as could the “privatization of piety” that lies at the heart of what Jean Delumeau has called the “christianization” of Europe in the eighteenth century, as missionaries converted pagan practices into Christian faith. In this story, the Enlightenment is no opponent of religion. Instead, it was the element that, as Roy Porter’s Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of the Modern World (2000) puts it, “purified and demarcated” the sacred from the profane realm. It offered the cleansing fire that purged religion of what Friedrich Schleiermacher long ago called the “dead slag” of arbitrary customs.
Proponents of the “external” vision could not be more scornful of this story and its effort—as Richard Trexler grimly wrote—to “cauterise human experience.” Religion, for the externalists, must be defined as a “communit[y] of behaviour” and scrutinized through the sociological and anthropological lens of practice. Historians then judge the progress or failure of religion by looking at evidence of ritual participation by the faithful, regardless of their inner beliefs. If fewer people were going to church, this would be a priori evidence that religion is on the decline. As the philosopher Marcel Gauchet’s Disenchantment of the World: A Political History of Religion (English translation, 1997) patently shows, this vision of religion is far more amenable to the traditional secularization thesis. Although the “subjective experience” of religion is an “irreducible anthropological residue,” Gauchet argues, real religion—in which the divinity owns and inhabits “the entire social space”—has been on the decline since the time of Moses. In this view, the eighteenth century represented the “deepest ever fracture in history,” as this decline of religion reached its final terminus.
Given that such radically different stories can be produced simply by shifting the nature of “religion,” the importance of the (pre-empirical and pre-evidentiary) choice of definitions is clear. To put religion into dialogue with the Enlightenment, in other words, we need to determine exactly who the partners in this conversation are. It may very well be that “religion” in all senses cannot be related meaningfully to the Enlightenment, precisely because the horizons of these two things were socially and culturally distinct in the period. This is not, I hope, an invitation to endless theoretical speculation on categories. But categories are important, in particular in periods of historiographical transformation. And the best theoretical platform should create the richest research program.
With that in mind, I would like to offer some provisional ideas about both the Enlightenment and religion. It seems clear that if, as Pocock has suggested, we move away from the Enlightenment as a set of doctrinal or philosophical precepts, the research program will become much more capacious. The language of rationalism, materialism, determinism, indeed, the entire philosophical definition of the Enlightenment, has tended (with some exceptions) to constrain rather than promote new research. At the same time, the language of multiple Enlightenments has a scattering effect that threatens to deprive the category of real analytical weight. I would suggest that rather than overly scatter or concentrate the Enlightenment, it would be more productive to treat it as a new constellation of formal and technical practices and institutions, “media,” to borrow from Friedrich Kittler. Such practices and institutions might include philosophical argument, but would encompass such diverse elements as salons, reading circles, erudition, scholarship and scholarly techniques, translations, book reviews, academies, new communication tools including journals and newspapers, new or revived techniques of data organization and storage (dictionaries, encyclopedias, taxonomies), and so on. This would, in a sense, return us to some of the “structures” that make Jürgen Habermas so popular even while abandoning the pedagogy of the public sphere that makes him so problematic. Enlightenment is not, in this context, value neutral, as Martin Gierl has pointed out in his excellent analysis of the “new communication systems” generated in the eighteenth century to deal with disagreement about theological and political truths. The very possibility of juxtaposing a spectrum of positions within one publication, Gierl shows, changes the manner in which theological controversy can be waged, defusing the polemics of the seventeenth century. These media make certain kinds of arguments possible and rob others of their structural efficacy. But they are not inherently anti-religious, nor do they force the Enlightenment to reenact a blind process of secularization. They are not intrinsically prejudicial to “religion,” however understood, nor do they prevent us from treating in a nuanced way this enormous area of eighteenth-century cultural life.
Instead, the media-driven concept of the Enlightenment allows us concentrate on precisely those places where the social, cultural, and intellectual horizons of religion and the Enlightenment fused. Scholarly media, academies, universities, reading societies, salons, journals, newspapers, translations: these were all places where various entities called religion were investigated and invigorated. Religion and the Enlightenment were wedded together, not because of any intrinsic intellectual affinity between rationalism and mystery but because the media of the Enlightenment were fundamental structures through which new religious cultures and practices were created. And the creators were not just the devout, although many were that. Instead, the creators spanned the spectrum of personal piety, some profoundly impious, some not. Finally, the media approach allows one to clarify the limits of the Enlightenment-religion relationship. Indeed, certain religious domains might be, by and large, external to these media: private devotion, prayers, certain liturgical elements, church law, and so on. Others would come into continual contact, helping to shape and being shaped by them. Not only would this expansion of the Enlightenment allow for a more productive scholarship on the Enlightenment and religion, it would also, in my view, clarify the question of secularization. Secularization would no longer be shorthand for the inevitable (intentional or not, serious or ironic) slide of the pre-modern religious past into the modern secular future. Instead, it would be an account of how new “religions” were produced in and through the media of the Enlightenment. It would be an account of how religion was made modern, how it was reconstructed in such a way as to incorporate it into the fabric of modernity. In short, it would be an account of cultural work.
What would such an account do for our opening scene? Would it let Berleburg have something to do with Bayle? The answer, I think, is yes. For the account asks historians to shift the way they have read both documents. Let’s begin with Bayle, whose perplexing dictionary offered its readers an alphabetical series of articles on figures as diverse as Aaron and Attila, Sarah and Spinoza, all attended by a horde of annotations. Traditionally, historians have asked the question, “What was the aim of his writing?” and their answers fell roughly into two camps: either Bayle was (with Elisabeth Labrousse) a writer whose aims conformed generally with Christian teachings, or Bayle was a “libertine” (David Wootton) and advocate of “Spinozism and philosophical atheism” (Jonathan Israel). In the former case, historians take Bayle seriously when he professes his faith; in the latter, his texts are read as “tactical device[s]” or as fine examples of “the art of theological lying.” What I am calling a media reading of Bayle would not resolve this longstanding conflict about Bayle’s religious intentions, because it would not ask what Bayle meant. Instead, it would ask how Bayle’s text functioned. Bayle’s philosophical sentiments would play a secondary role to his textual practices, practices that, as Ernst Cassirer wrote long ago, are simply perplexing:
In Bayle there is no hierarchy of concepts, no deductive derivation of one concept, but rather a simple aggregation of materials, each of which is as significant as any other and shares with it an equal claim to complete and exhaustive treatment … [H]e never follows a definite plan assigning limits to the various types of material and distinguishing the important from the unimportant, the relevant from the irrelevant.Bayle pursues this accretionary method rigorously throughout the Dictionnaire. Beyond issues of “tactics,” this method permeates all articles, religious or not. As a dictionary, one of many that appeared at the end of the seventeenth century, the form of Bayle’s text broke the world into discrete parts, alphabetized them, and provided running commentary. Articles did not need to cohere, nor were positions set in stone. Instead, its form opened up horizons of interpretive behavior unknown in the previous age.
Now the curious fact is that exactly the same logic applies to the Berleburger Bible, a text that has puzzled commentators for many years. In the main, scholars have asked the identical question they have addressed to Bayle: What does it mean? And through a variety of strategies, they have managed to discover “a consistent work of [theological] interpretation” hidden underneath “its variety and its richness.” Whatever the truth of these interpretations, however, I would suggest that this cleansing operation actually overlooks the central work this text performed. This was, after all, a text whose massive folio pages are crammed not just with theological commentary but also with scores of quotations from literally dozens of authorities. Ancients range from Aristotle to Xenophanes; moderns from Robert Bellarmine to Athanasius Kirchner. This battalion of scholars provides information on topics as widely varied as geography, philology, history, philosophy, numerology, and mysticism. Leviticus 25: 13—”In this year of jubilee each of you shall return to his property”—occasioned, for example, a rambling explanation that relied on cabalistic numerology, mystic theology, and chronology in order to unfold its subtle secrets. After providing a range of conflicting numerological estimates for “the great restoration of all rational creatures” in the so-called seventh jubilee, Haug offered his perplexed readers only this final piece of advice: “we cannot in these, our fleeting times, have any correct concept of these determined ages and eternities.” So was numerology meaningful or not? Both possibilities remained open in the Berleburg commentary, which teamed with a brand-new translation to offer, for the first time, a new form of the vernacular Bible, one that had little compunction about overwhelming its reader with a mass of apparently contradictory facts.
The vertiginous effects of scholarship; the circular, doubling, and dizzying annotations; the multiplication of commentaries arranged in networks rather than hierarchies; the unresolved conflicts between various layers of notes: these were, of course, exactly the same qualities that attended Bayle. His article “Aaron” (used, remember, to criticize the Berleburg Bible) and its analysis of the Golden Calf, for example, offered its readers a collage of arguments about Jewish idolatry, the failures of the rabbinic imagination, iconoclastic Bible translations, and the virtues of the learned, who “can keep themselves from snares, while the ignorant cannot.” Read as reflections of philosophical and theological programs, of course, Bayle and Berleburg were oil and water. One was dedicated to spiritual and mystical renewal, the other to at best a skeptical fideism and at worst outright atheism. But read with attention to form—to their practical textual expressions—the “Bible of the eighteenth century” had much in common with this actual eighteenth-century Bible. In both, an apparently spontaneous accumulation of detail breaks down and deracinates their philosophical or theological “message.” Both incorporate wildly heterogeneous collections of sources, an eclectic strategy that put all authoritative proclamations on an equal level. Neither Bayle nor Haug offered a key for establishing the hierarchy of authority among the sources. Instead, their commentary was a library of materials, so much so that both men were forced to rebut charges of plagiarism. In both cases, underlying materials swamped the ostensible “text” (biblical passage, dictionary entry). And finally, the formal aspects of both works prevented the reconstitution of an ostensibly unified universe of meaning.
This sketch indicates that the main issue may not be the “influence” of Enlightenment philosophy on the Berleburger Bible. This Bible had little to do with Enlightenment philosophy. It did, however, have much to do with Enlightenment media, which it used to reconstitute the vernacular Bible. These media were not committed to exact philosophical positions, nor did they advance exact philosophical aims. Instead, they were developed as techniques of collection, presentation, and organization that proved remarkably adaptable to a variety of different philosophical, religious, and scholarly aims. At the same time, they are not neutral with regard to their message. Bayle was not more of an Enlightenment figure than Haug, but he was a cannier human being, one who had a deeper sense of the kinds of arguments sustainable within the media. Dense annotation and conflicting notes made certain kinds of theological claims—about the organic unity of the biblical message, for example—extraordinarily difficult to sustain. In this sense—in the sense that the Berleburger Bible made the biblical text unstable and set it into tension with scholarly commentary—we can consider this part of the “work” of secularization. But the denigration of the Bible was not a foregone conclusion here. Instead, this work involved a considerable investment in the object it was supposedly destroying. The investment came in the form of new scholarly practices that employed the media of the Enlightenment in order to make a “post-theological” Bible, a Bible fresh and relevant to the modern world.
With this final example, we can bring the story full circle back to the new histories of religion that have emerged in the past fifteen years. It is no accident that the study of religion assumed such urgency after 1989, I think, a period when the political certainties of the twentieth century collapsed and the project of modernity ran headlong into the haunting specters of religious politics. The efforts to rewrite the story of the Enlightenment are symptomatic of a wider sense that religion may not have lost its grip, in the end, on the modern social, political, and cultural imagination. If symptomatic, however, these struggles to understand religion and the Enlightenment also illuminate the problems faced in many fields as scholars seek to write religion back into the story of the present. From Berleburg and Bayle, we can see how the forms and practices of modern culture can be used to widely divergent ends, even ends apparently antithetical to the doctrines that modern culture assumes to be true. It is probably no accident that religion has so effectively colonized radio and television, after all, seeing in them media whose ideological content is not fully prescribed. From the wider literature on eighteenth-century religion, we can see a shifting sense of the story of secularization, a story that nearly always takes its leave from that crucible of modernity, the Enlightenment. If the Enlightenment is no longer read as a philosophical and anti-religious movement but rather, as some of the authors reviewed here do, as a set of cultural institutions and practices whose relationship to religion was complicated and diverse, then the Enlightenment no longer can provide the opening move in that inevitable decline of religion called secularization. Secularization—understood as the passive demotion of religion to the corners of human experience—has lost its luster. Instead, it must be treated as a contingent and active set of strategies that change religion over time. This is as true of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries as it was of the eighteenth. If the Enlightenment keeps its status as the cradle of modernity, it will be less as the birthplace of secularism than as the birthplace of a distinctly modern form of religion whose presence and power continues to shape the present.
My thanks to Princeton University’s Center for the Study of Religion and to the Indiana University History Department for their generous support. Careful and insightful suggestions from Konstantin Dierks, Constance Furey, Sarah Knott, Kate Seidl, Dror Wahrman, and the anonymous AHR reviewers were much appreciated.
Jonathan Sheehan is an assistant professor of history at Indiana University. His work focuses on early modern Europe, with particular interests in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, religion, and the history of scholarship and the disciplines. His book The Enlightenment Bible: Translation, Scholarship, Culture is forthcoming from Princeton University Press in 2004, and he is currently at work on a history of the human sciences in early modern Europe.
1�Johann Friedrich Haug, Die Heilige Schrift Altes und Neues Testaments/nach dem Grund-Text aufs neue übersehen und übersetzet (Berleburg, 1726), 3v.
2�Fortgesetzte Sammlung von alten und neuen theologischen Sachen (1727): 1176; Fortgesetzte Sammlung (1731): 271; Josef Urlinger, “Die geistes- und sprachgeschichtliche Bedeutung der Berleburger Bibel” (PhD dissertation, Universität Saarlands, 1969), 245.
3�Auserlesene Theologische Bibliothek 22 (1727): 917.
4�Ruth Whelan, The Anatomy of Superstition: A Study of the Historical Theory and Practice of Pierre Bayle (Oxford, 1989), 10.
5�Richard Willis, Reflexions upon a Pamphelet intituled, An Account of the Growth of Deism in England (London, 1696), 1.
6�Edinburgh Magazine 2 (1758): 210–11.
7�The Court Magazine 1 (1761): 126.
8�Jonathan Clark, English Society, 1660–1832, 2d edn. (Cambridge, 2000), 28 (the first edition makes no such claim); Eckhart Hellmuth, “Towards a Comparative Study of Political Culture,” in The Transformation of Political Culture: England and Germany in the Late Eighteenth Century, Hellmuth, ed. (Oxford, 1990), 25; John Gascoigne, “Anglican Latitudinarianism, Rational Dissent and Political Radicalism in the Late Eighteenth Century,” in Knud Haakonssen, ed., Enlightenment and Religion: Rational Dissent in Eighteenth-Century Britain (Cambridge, 1996), 219; David Ruderman, Jewish Enlightenment in an English Key: Anglo-Jewry’s Construction of Modern Jewish Thought (Princeton, N.J., 2000), 19. Nigel Aston’s Christianity and Revolutionary Europe, 1750–1830 (Cambridge, 2003) and S. J. Barnett’s Enlightenment and Religion: The Myths of Modernity (Manchester, 2003) unfortunately appeared too late for consideration in this essay.
9�Horton Davies, Worship and Theology in England, 5 vols. (Princeton, N.J., 1961–75), 3: 143.
10�Teresa Watanabe, “The New Gospel of Academia,” Los Angeles Times, October 18, 2000.
11�On the Ford Foundation, see the “Ford Foundation Report,” Summer/Fall 1996 at www.fordfound.org; on the Pew centers, see http://religionanddemocracy.lib.virginia.edu/partners/pewcenters.html and www.pewforum.org. My thanks to Princeton’s Center director Robert Wuthnow for this information.
12�The report, written by Kathleen Mahoney, John Schmalzbauer, and James Youniss, can be found at www.resourcingchristianity.org/downloads/Essays/PublicReport.pdf.
13�Hent de Vries, Philosophy and the Turn to Religion(Baltimore, 1999), 431; Gianni Vattimo, After Christianity(New York, 2002), 5.
14�Clarence Taylor, “A Glorious Age for African-American Religion,” Journal of American Ethnic History 15 (Winter 1996): 79.
15�Owen Chadwick, The Secularization of the European Mind in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1975); Margaret Lavinia Anderson, “The Limits of Secularization: On the Problem of the Catholic Revival in Nineteenth-Century Germany,” The Historical Journal 38 (September 1995): 648. See also Dagmar Herzog, Intimacy and Exclusion: Religious Politics in Pre-Revolutionary Baden (Princeton, N.J., 1996); David Blackbourn, Marpingen: Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Bismarckian Germany (Oxford, 1993); and earlier, Jonathan Sperber, Popular Catholicism in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Princeton, 1984).
16�Chadwick, Secularization, 9.
17�John McManners, Church and Society in Eighteenth-Century France, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1998), 2: 306–07.
18�McManners, Church and Society, 2: 306, 1: 3.
19�McManners, Church and Society, 2: 288, 2: 306, 1: 4.
20�B. W. Young, “Religious History and the Eighteenth-Century Historian,” The Historical Journal 43 (September 2000):857.
21�Peter Gay, The Enlightenment: An Interpretation, Vol.1: The Rise of Modern Paganism (New York, 1966), 330–31; Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time (Cambridge, Mass., 1985), 252–53; Johann Lorenz Mosheim, “A Brief Sketch of the Ecclesiastical History of the Eighteenth Century,” in Ecclesiastical History (Philadelphia, 1798), 6: 6; Anti-Jacobin Review 1 (1799): 506; Anti-Jacobin Review 7 (1801): 25; Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment, John Cumming, trans. (New York, 1972), 7, 9, 12–13.
22�On legitimacy, see Hans Blumenberg, The Legitimacy of the Modern Age (Cambridge, Mass., 1983). Blumenberg criticizes boththe argument that legitimacy of the modern age depends on its “worldliness” and the corollary argument that, by revealing the religious foundations of the modern age, one is somehow divesting it of its legitimacy (17).
23�Pace J. G. A. Pocock, “Within the Margins: The Definitions of Orthodoxy,” in The Margins of Orthodoxy, Roger Lund, ed. (Cambridge, 1995), 37; S. J. Barnett, Idol Temples and Crafty Priests: The Origins of Enlightenment Anticlericalism (New York, 1999), 7.
24�Robert Sullivan, “Rethinking Christianity in Enlightened Europe,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 34, no. 2 (2001): 299; Roy Porter and Mikuláš Teich, eds., The Enlightenmentin National Context (Cambridge, 1981), vii; Gay, Enlightenment, 3; Roy Porter, “The Enlightenment in England,” in Porter and Teich, Enlightenment, 6; Joachim Whaley, “The Protestant Enlightenment in Germany,” in Porter and Teich, Enlightenment, 111; Simon Schama, “The Enlightenment in the Netherlands,” in Porter and Teich, Enlightenment, 55; Samuel Taylor, “The Enlightenment in Switzerland,” in Porter and Teich, Enlightenment, 80.
25�David Sorkin, Moses Mendelssohn and the Religious Enlightenment (Berkeley, Calif., 1996), xxi, 154–55.
26�Isaiah Berlin, “The Counter-Enlightenment,” in Berlin, et al., The Proper Study of Mankind: An Anthology of Essays (London, 1997), 263, 249; C. D. A. Leighton, “Hutchinsonianism: A Counter-Enlightenment Reform Movement,” Journal of Religious History 23 (June 1999): 176; B. W.Young, Religion and Enlightenment in Eighteenth-Century England (Oxford, 1998), 44, 121.
27�J. G. A. Pocock, Barbarism and Religion: The Enlightenments of Edward Gibbon, 1737–1764 (Cambridge, 1999), 298, 10, 298, 253, 298, 66, 73.
28�Pocock, Barbarism, 138–39, 306; Knud Haakonssen, “Enlightened Dissent: An Introduction,” in Haakonssen, Enlightenment and Religion, 3.
29�Clark, English Society, 9.
30�Clark, English Society, 339.
31�Blumenberg, Legitimacy, 3; Clark, English Society, 11, 10.
32�Pocock, Barbarism, 138.
33�Suzanne Desan, Reclaiming the Sacred: Lay Religion and Popular Politics in Revolutionary France (Ithaca, N.Y., 1990); Timothy Tackett, Religion, Revolution, and Regional Culture in Eighteenth-Century France (Princeton, N.J., 1986); Dale K. VanKley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution: From Calvinto the Civil Constitution, 1560–1791 (New Haven, Conn., 1996), 136 (see also his Jansenists and the Expulsion of the Jesuits from France, 1757–1765 [New Haven, 1975]); David A. Bell, The Cult of the Nation in France: Inventing Nationalism, 1680–1800 (Cambridge, Mass., 2001).
34�Bell, Cult of the Nation, 296.
35�John Robertson, “The Enlightenment above National Context: Political Economy in Eighteenth-Century Scotland and Naples,” The Historical Journal 40 (September 1997): 671.
36�Pocock, Barbarism, 252; Jonathan I. Israel, The Radical Enlightenment: Philosophy and the Making of Modernity, 1650–1750 (Oxford, 2001), 4, 12, 159, 80, 108. See pp. 137, 140–41, for criticisms of Pocock and his theory of multiple Enlightenments.
37�Israel, Radical Enlightenment, 4.
38�Norman Hampson, “The Enlightenment in France,” in Porter and Teich, Enlightenment, 41–42.
39�Chadwick, Secularization, 17.
40�Georg Lichtenberg, “Sudelbücher,” in Schriften und Briefe, Wolfgang Promies, ed. (Munich, 1968), 1: 671; Martin Fitzpatrick, “The Enlightenment, Politics and Providence: Some Scottish and English Comparisons,” in Haakonssen, Enlightenment and Religion, 64.
41�James J. Sack, From Jacobite to Conservative: Reaction and Orthodoxy in Britain, c. 1760–1832 (Cambridge, 1993), 36; Young, “Religious History,” 859; Dale Van Kley and James Bradley, eds., “Introduction,” Religion and Politics in Enlightenment Europe (Notre Dame, Ind., 2001), 37; John Seed, “‘A Set of Men Powerful Enough in Many Things’: Rational Dissent and Political Opposition in England, 1770–1790,” in Haakonssen, Enlightenment and Religion, 163; Clark, English Society, 285, 294; Mildert quoted in Clark, EnglishSociety, 426; Peter Nockles, “Church Parties in the Pre-Tractarian Church of England 1750–1833: The ‘Orthodox’—Some Problems of Definition and Identity,” in The Church of England, c. 1689–c. 1833, John Walsh, etal., eds. (Cambridge, 1993), 339; Jeremy Gregory, “The Eighteenth-Century Reformation: The Pastoral Task of Anglican Clergyafter 1689,” in Walsh, Church of England, 68.
42�Young, “Religious History,” 859.
43�Leigh Eric Schmidt, Hearing Things: Religion, Illusion, andthe American Enlightenment (Cambridge, Mass., 2000), 30; Darrin McMahon, Enemies of the Enlightenment: The French Counter-Enlightenment and the Making of Modernity (Oxford, 2001), 101; Roger Chartier, The Cultural Origins of the FrenchRevolution (Durham, N.C., 1991), 5; McMahon, Enemies, 101.
44�Jonathan Z. Smith, “Religion, Religions, Religious,” in Critical Terms for Religious Studies, Mark C. Taylor, ed.(Chicago, 1998), 270; Peter Harrison, “Religion” and the Religions in the English Enlightenment (Cambridge, 1990), 25–26.
45�Bell, Cult of the Nation, 37.
46�Ann Taves, Fits, Trances, and Visions: Experiencing Religionand Explaining Experience from Wesley to James (Princeton, N.J., 1999), 47; Kaspar von Greyerz, Religion und Kultur: Europa 1500–1800 (Göttingen, 2000), 285; Jean Delumeau, Catholicism between Luther and Voltaire (Philadelphia, 1977).
47�Roy Porter, Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of the Modern World (London, 2000), 205.
48�Friedrich Schleiermacher, On Religion: Speeches to Its Cultured Despisers, Richard Crouter, trans. (Cambridge, 1988), 194.
49�Richard Trexler, “Reverence and Profanity in the Study of Early Modern Religion,” in Kaspar von Greyerz, ed., Religion and Society in Early Modern Europe, 1500–1800 (London, 1984), 256, 253.
50�Marcel Gauchet, The Disenchantment of the World: A Political History of Religion (Princeton, N.J., 1997), 163, 8, 162.
51�Friedrich Kittler, Discourse Networks, 1800/1900 (Stanford, Calif., , 1990), esp. chaps. 1–3 and pp. 229–39; Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (Cambridge, Mass., 1989), esp. part 2; Martin Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung: Theologische Polemik und die Kommunikationsreform der Wissenschaft am Ende des 17. Jahrhunderts (Göttingen, 1997), 415. The recent effort to define the Enlightenment as a republic of letters—structured by “social and discursive practices and institutions”—could easily be encompassed by the media definition of the Enlightenment: see Dena Goodman, Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French Enlightenment (Ithaca, N.Y., 1994), 2; also Anne Goldgar, Impolite Learning: Conduct and Community in the Republic of Letters, 1680–1750 (New Haven, Conn., 1995).
52�Elisabeth Labrousse, Pierre Bayle, 2 vols. (The Hague, 1963–64); David Wootton, “Pierre Bayle, Libertine?” in M. A. Stewart, ed., Studies in Seventeenth-Century European Philosophy (Oxford, 1997); Israel, Radical Enlightenment, 339.
53�Israel, Radical Enlightenment, 339; David Berman, “Deism, Immortality, and the Art of Theological Lying,” in J. A. Leo Lemay, ed., Deism, Masonry, and the Enlightenment (Newark, N.J., 1987).
54�Ernst Cassirer, The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, Fritz Koelln and James Pettegrove, trans. (Boston, 1951), 202.
55�Martin Brecht, “Die Berleburger Bibel: Hinweise zu ihrem Verständnis,” Pietismus und Neuzeit 8 (1982): 199.
56�Haug, Die Heilige Schrift, 1: 542.
57�Pierre Bayle, Dictionnaire historique et critique, 3dedn. (Rotterdam, 1720), s.v. ‘Aaron.’
58�On the invention of the post-theological Bible, see Jonathan Sheehan, The Enlightenment Bible: Translation, Scholarship, Culture (forthcoming, Princeton, 2004).