THE WAGES OF ORIGINAL SIN

Charisma: The Gift of Grace, and How It Has Been Taken Away from Us by Philip Rieff. Pantheon, 271 pp., $26.95.

"Isn't it curious," my theology teacher used to say with a sly smile, "that beyond good and evil is always ... evil?" This is traditionally the last resort, the trump card, of the orthodox: there is no honor among unbelievers, or at least no security for their honor. Why should someone who doesn't love God, or at least fear His judgment, be moral? In God Is Not Great, Christopher Hitchens recalls a debate between the philosopher A.J. Ayer and an Anglican bishop about the existence of God. Apparently out of arguments, the bishop exclaimed: "But if you really believe all that, why don't you immediately go out and commit every sort of depraved act?" It hadn't occurred to His Grace that a skeptic, even a skeptical Oxford philosopher, could be anything but wicked.

Contemporary social science has pretty well established that believers and unbelievers commit every sort of depraved act in roughly equal proportions. Nevertheless, the assumption that one cannot be reliably good without God persists in the United States, explicitly or implicitly, to the extent that a declared unbeliever almost certainly cannot be elected to national office. Around half the population identify themselves as born-again Christians and believe in angels, miracles, the inerrancy of the Bible, and the special creation of the Earth within the last ten thousand years. So if (as everyone seems to agree) America is in decline morally, an excess of skeptical rationalism is probably not to blame. Still, the modern world is undeniably more secular than the premodern one, especially among the educated, and that fact must surely have large psychological, if not behavioral, consequences. What have been, and will be, the effects of the Enlightenment on the individual and collective moral psychology of the West?

For five decades, until his death in July 2006, Philip Rieff pondered that question intently, learnedly, and eccentrically. Though Rieff was a sociology professor, he was not a social scientist; he was a social theorist in the line of Durkheim and Weber, an erudite synthesist. All three were social psychologists of religion, but Rieff was a social psychologist of irreligion as well. Equally important, he had an analytical resource they did not: Freudian psychoanalysis.

Rieff's first book (his best, in my opinion) was a penetrating and imaginative study, Freud: The Mind of the Moralist (1959). At the time, most people considered Freud an immoralist - a proponent of liberation. Morality was supposedly what made us ill, posing unreasonable demands on behalf of "civilization" and forcing our healthy instinctual passions underground, into the unconscious, from which they tried to escape by way of "symptoms." These symptoms were strangled protests against the tyranny of culture over nature. The psychoanalytic cure was a protracted guerrilla campaign, aiming to take over one inner stronghold (technically, "resistance") after another without provoking an all-out counterattack in the form of a nervous breakdown.

Freudian therapy was an indifferent success, but Freudian theory was enormously influential. The lesson most people took from it was a strong suspicion of moral authority and a reluctance to exercise it over young children. Inhibition, repression, and conformity were assumed to be unhealthy; spontaneity, individualism, and self-expression to be healthy. The prestige of "order" plummeted; that of "freedom" soared.

The Mind of the Moralist was a vigorous dissent from this standard interpretation. Rieff's point was not just that, unlike his noisier disciples, Freud was temperamentally conservative, rating order as highly as freedom and restraint as highly as expression. This stance could be (and regularly was) dismissed as reflexive Victorian/Viennese caution. On the contrary, Rieff argued, Freud's caution was well-founded. He understood that he had not really explained away our primal, nameless sense of guilt, which lay beneath the more superficial and intelligible constraints imposed by culture, with the implausible hypothesis of a primal crime. And yet, for this resolute unbeliever, such guilt could have no rational basis - who, after all, was humankind accountable to?

Rieff's explanation of what there is to be guilty about was repeated in many books over many years, with increasing urgency (and, it must be said, portentousness). Human possibilities are limitless; about this he seemed to agree with Freud's liberationist successors. But what excited them terrified him - and, he claimed, everyone else, at least before the triumph of the therapeutic ethos. Our primal endowment - formless, destructive, uncontrollable instinct - paralyzes and isolates us. We cannot trust ourselves or one another until a firm structure of interdictions has been installed in everyone's psyche. These must be expounded by an interpretive elite, ratified through a calendar of rituals, and enforced by stern authority. Every culture is a dialectic of prohibition and permission, renunciation and release. Freud would have agreed; but whereas his followers concluded that the original "yes" of instinct was silenced, or at least muted, by the "no" of repressive authority, Rieff countered that instinct was cacophonous and only the original, creative "no" gave it a distinct voice. As he put it in The Mind of the Moralist - his style, already a little melodramatic, foreshadowing his later, full-blown apocalyptic abstractions - the primal self is "in a panic to express the fecundity of its own emptiness" and must be mastered by "unalterable authority." For if "everything could be expressed by everyone identically," then "nothing would remain to be expressed individually." Hence the "irreducible and supreme activity of culture" is to "prevent the expression of everything," thereby precluding "the one truly egalitarian dominion: nothingness."

For most educated (even many uneducated) Westerners, however, all formerly unalterable authorities now lie in the dust, like Ozymandias. Science has banished the supernatural, technology has vanquished scarcity, and so, having lost its parents, ignorance and misery, morality is now an orphan. This is the triumphalist view of modernity, and Rieff shared it; only instead of a triumph, he thought it a catastrophe. The dimensions of this catastrophe dawned on him gradually. The last chapter of Freud is "The Emergence of Psychological Man," a tentative sketch of what modernity had wrought. Until the twentieth century, in Rieff's account, three character types had successively prevailed in Western culture: political man, the ideal of classical times, dedicated to the glory of his city; religious man, the ideal of the Christian era, dedicated to the glory of God; and a transitional figure, economic man, a creature of Enlightenment liberalism. Economic man believed in doing good unto others by doing well for himself. This convenient compromise did not last long, and what survived of it was not the altruism but the egoism. Psychological man was frankly and shrewdly selfish, beyond ideals and illusions, a charming narcissist at best, at worst boorish or hypochondriacal, according to his temperament.

But the worst thing about psychological man was his children. Raised without repressions, they were incapable of renunciation and regarded all authority as illegitimate. Rieff's second book, The Triumph of the Therapeutic (1966), raised the alarm about their "devastating illusions of individuality and freedom." A society without hierarchy, whose members "cannot conceive any salvation other than amplitude in living itself," must end in moral squalor, chaos, anomie, and universal boredom. Nor will it help to "disguise their rancorous worship of self in the religion of art," for art too depends on renunciation. Here Rieff quotes Nietzsche at length (in what is for me the most illuminating passage in Rieff's entire corpus):

"Every system of morals is a sort of tyranny against "nature" and also against "reason"; that is, however, no objection, unless one should decree, by some other system of morals, that all kinds of tyranny and unreasonableness are unlawful. What is essential and invaluable in every system of morals is that it is a long constraint. ... The singular fact remains that everything of the nature of freedom, elegance, boldness, dance, and masterly certainty, which exists or has ever existed, whether in thought or administration, in art or in conduct, has only developed by means of the tyranny of such arbitrary law; and in all seriousness, it is not at all improbable that precisely this is "nature" and "natural" and not laisser-aller! ... The essential thing is apparently (to repeat it once more) that there should be long obedience in the same direction; there results thereby, and has always resulted in the long run, something which has made life worth living." (Beyond Good and Evil, #188)

Muscular strength is built gradually, for example by overcoming the resistance of progressively heavier weights. Moral and psychological strength also require resistance - the pressure of cultural interdicts, dictating what is not to be done or even thought of. Such discipline simplifies our lives and economizes our energies. Without an unquestioned moral demand system, based on guilt, fear, and faith and generating obedience, trust, and dependence, there can be no spiritual hygiene, no communal purpose. And that is what the triumph of the therapeutic ethos makes impossible. Nowadays "the religious psychologies of release and the social technologies of affluence do not go beyond release and affluence to a fresh imposition of restrictive demands. This describes, in a sentence, the cultural revolution of our time. The old culture of denial has become irrelevant to a world of infinite abundance and reality." In the absence of strict, even harsh, limits (to use a plain word Rieff himself, puzzlingly, so seldom used that one is led to wonder whether his elaborately artificial prose style was itself meant as a discipline), we cannot thrive.

While Rieff was writing The Triumph of the Therapeutic in the early 1960s, the New Left and the counterculture were still gathering force. When the storm broke in the mid- and late sixties, he was aghast. In 1971 he gave an interview to the editors of Salmagundi. When they asked him to edit the transcript for publication, he responded with a book-length open letter, Fellow Teachers (1973), denouncing students and teachers alike, the former for their ignorant impatience of all discipline and sacred authority, the latter for their irresponsible acquiescence.

"Students can bring us no hope at all until the protest style, as Love of Humanity and Power to the People, is seen through. With the vision of this horror, we will see in true light the craven aping and interminable apologies for the transgressive types at the bottom: the perverts, the underclass, all those who can do no wrong because they have been wronged. ... I repeat what I have said often: immediately behind the hippies are the thugs. They occupy the remissive space opened up by the hippies, deepening it from an aesthetic into a politics. The self-absorbed therapy of the hippies clears the way for the mass-murder therapy of the thugs."

He could not refrain from the ultimate epithet: "Released from sacred fear by our remissive teaching elites, transgressives carry their peculiar authority with more right and less shame than ever before in the history of our misery. Hence Hitler and Holocaust (sic). ... Gulag and Dachau, torture and terror, are the dry-eyed children of our enlightenments."

Despairing, Rieff fell silent until his death thirty-three years later. (One of his students, Jonathan Imber, published The Feeling Intellect, a valuable collection of Rieff's occasional writings, in 1990.) He did not, however, cease working. He left behind a mass of manuscripts, which several former students were helping him ready for publication. Charisma is one of them. Another, My Life Among the Deathworks, the first volume of a projected trilogy, Sacred Order, Social Order appeared last year.

Charisma is not Rieff at his best. The proofreading is slapdash; he would have been mortified by the quantity of faulty punctuation remaining. But he is also at fault: the book is repetitive, dense with jargon, impatient of exposition, and more than occasionally intemperate. In form, it is an extended quarrel with Max Weber's sociology of religion, which relies on the concept of charisma but, according to Rieff, radically misunderstands it. Weber conceived charisma as one of three kinds of authority - traditional, charismatic, and bureaucratic - that characterize all organizations, including religious ones. Traditional authority, typical of primitive societies, derives from inertia and aims at continuity. Bureaucratic authority, typical of modern societies, derives from methodical reasoning and aims at efficiency. Charismatic authority is untypical and unpredictable; it derives from a singularly compelling, dynamic figure, seemingly gifted by God, and aims at radical reform or innovation. The charismatic figure arises when a tradition or bureaucracy stagnates, and his legacy is inevitably regularized by his uncharismatic successors. Since Weber, the term has been drastically vulgarized and is now mostly employed by journalists or publicists to puff politicians and pop-culture personalities.
Rieff deplores this progressive secularization of charisma and insists on its fundamentally religious significance. "My position is ... no charisma without creed." For Rieff, a creed is not primarily theological but moral: a "particular order of interdicts and remissions." Genuine charisma is not transgressive; it does not abolish limits or license lawlessness. Rather, it imposes new interdicts, a "new organization of avoidances and of salvations through avoidances." Charismatics satisfy "the need for love in its prototypical form, as a craving for authority, reorganizing its expression within a fresh content of ambivalences." As he writes, in one of all too many suggestive but obscure passages: