http://www.economist.com/PrinterFriendly.cfm?Story_ID=3490697 The Economist The end of the world A brief history Dec 16th 2004 Why do end-of-time beliefs endure? A VERICHIP is a tiny, implantable microchip with a unique identification number that connects a patient to his medical records. When America's Food and Drug Administration recently approved it for medical use in humans, the news provoked familiar worries in the press about privacy-threatening technologies. But on the notice boards of raptureready.com, the talk was about a drawback that the FDA and the media seemed to have overlooked. Was the VeriChip the "mark of the beast"? Raptureready.com runs an online service for the millions of born-again Christians in America who believe that an event called the Rapture is coming soon. During the Rapture, Christ will return and whisk believers away to join the righteous dead in heaven. From there, they will have the best seats in the house as the unsaved perish in a series of spectacular fires, wars, plagues and earthquakes. (Raptureready.com advises the soon-to-depart to stick a note on the fridge to brief those left behind-husbands, wives and in-laws-about the horrors in store for them.) Furnished with apocalyptic tracts from the Bible, believers scour news dispatches for clues that the Rapture is approaching. Some think implantable chips are a sign. The Book of Revelation features a "mark" that the Antichrist makes everybody wear "in their right hand, or in their foreheads". Rapturists have more than a hobbyist's idle interest in identifying this mark. Anyone who accepts it spends eternity roasting in the sulphurs of hell. (And, incidentally, the European Union may be "the matrix out of which the Antichrist's kingdom could grow.") Christians have kept faith with the idea that the world is just about to end since the beginnings of their religion. Jesus Himself hinted more than once that His second coming would happen during the lifetime of His followers. In its original form, the Lord's Prayer, taught by Jesus to his disciples, may have implored God to "keep us from the ordeal". Men have been making the same appeal ever since. In 156AD, a fellow called Montanus, pronouncing himself to be the incarnation of the Holy Spirit, declared that the New Jerusalem was about to come crashing down from the heavens and land in Phrygia-which, conveniently, was where he lived. Before long, Asia Minor, Rome, Africa and Gaul were jammed with wandering ecstatics, bitterly repenting their sins and fasting and whipping themselves in hungry anticipation of the world's end. A bit more than a thousand years later, the authorities in Germany were stamping out an outbreak of apocalyptic mayhem among a self-abusing sect called the secret flagellants of Thuringia. The disciples of William Miller, a 19th-century evangelical American, clung ecstatically to the same belief as the Montanists and the Thuringians. A thick strand of Christian history connects them all, and countless other movements. Don't get left behind Apocalyptic belief renews itself in ingenious ways. Belief in the Rapture, which enlivens the familiar end-of-time narrative with a compellingly dramatic twist, appears to be a modern phenomenon: John Nelson Darby, a 19th-century British evangelical preacher, was perhaps the first to popularise the idea. (Darby's inspiration was a passage in St Paul's letter to the Thessalonians, which talks about the Christian dead and true believers being "caught up together" in the clouds.) It is not easy to say how many Americans believe in Darby's concept of Rapture. But a dozen novels that dramatise the event and its gripping aftermath-the "Left Behind" series-have sold more than 40m copies. New apocalyptic creeds have even sprung from those sticky moments when the world has failed to end on schedule. (Social scientists call this "disconfirmation".) When the resurrected Christ failed to show up for Miller's disciples on the night of October 22nd 1844, press scribblers mocked the "Great Disappointment" mercilessly. But even as they jeered, a farmer called Hiram Edson snuck away from the vigil to pray in a barn, where he duly received word of what had happened. There had been a great event after all-but in heaven, not on Earth. This happening was that Jesus had begun an "investigative judgment of the dead" in preparation for his return. Thus was born the Church of Seventh-day Adventists. They were not the only ones to rise above apparent setbacks to the prophesies by which they set such store: the Jehovah's Witnesses of the persistently apocalyptic Watchtower sect survived no fewer than nine disconfirmations every few years between 1874 and 1975. Which way to Armageddon? Why do end-of-time beliefs endure? Social scientists love to set about this question with earnest study of the people who subscribe to such ideas. As part of his investigation into the "apocalyptic genre" in modern America, Paul Boyer of the University of Wisconsin asks why so many of his fellow Americans are "susceptible" to televangelists and other "popularisers".
From time to time, sophisticated Americans indulge the thrillingly terrifying thought that nutty, apocalyptic, born-again Texans are guiding not just conservative social policies at home, but America's agenda in the Middle East as well, as they round up reluctant compatriots for the last battle at Armageddon. (It's a bit south of the Lake of Galilee in the plain of Jezreel.)
Behind these attitudes sits the assumption that apocalyptic thought
belongs-or had better belong-to the extremities of human experience. On
closer inspection, though, that is by no means true.
Properly, the apocalypse is both an end and a new beginning. In Christian
tradition, the world is created perfect. There is then a fall, followed by
a long, rather enjoyable (for some) period of moral degeneration. This
culminates in a decisive final battle between good (the returned Christ)
and evil (the Antichrist). Good wins and establishes the New Jerusalem and
with it the 1,000-year reign of King Jesus on Earth.
This is the glorious millennium that millenarians await so eagerly.
Millenarians tend to place history at a moment just before the decisive
final showdown. The apocalyptic mind looks through the surface reality of
the world and sees history's epic, true nature: "apocalypse" comes from the
Greek word meaning to uncover, or disclose.
Norman Cohn, a British historian, places the origin of apocalyptic thought
with Zoroaster (or Zarathustra), a Persian prophet who probably lived
between 1500 and 1200BC. The Vedic Indians, ancient Egyptians and some
earlier civilisations had seen history as a cycle, which was for ever
returning to its beginning. Zoroaster embellished this tepid plot. He added
goodies (Ahura Mazda, the maker and guardian of the ordered world), baddies
(the spirit of destruction, Angra Mainyu) and a happy ending (a glorious
consummation of order over disorder, known as the "making wonderful", in
which "all things would be made perfect, once and for all"). In due course
Zoroaster's theatrical talents came to Christians via the Jews.
This basic drama shapes all apocalyptic thought, from the tenets of tribal
cargo cults to the beliefs of UFO sects. In 1973, Claude Vorilhon, a
correspondent for a French racing-car magazine, claimed to have been
whisked away in a flying saucer, in which he had spent six days with a
green chap who spoke fluent French. The alien told Mr Vorilhon that the
Frenchman's real name was Rael, that humans had misread the Bible and that,
properly translated, the Hebrew word Elohim (singular: Eloha) did not mean
God, as Jews had long supposed, but "those who came from the sky".
The alien then revealed that his species had created everything on Earth in
a space laboratory, and that the aliens wanted to return to give humans
their advanced technology, which would transform the world utterly. First,
however, Rael needed financial contributions to build the aliens an embassy
in Jerusalem, because otherwise they would not feel welcome (a bit lame,
this explanation). Although the Israeli government has not yet given its
consent, the Raelians-those persuaded by Rael's account-continue to welcome
donations in anticipation of a change of heart.
The Raelians' claim to be atheists who belong to the secular world must
come as no surprise to Mr Cohn, who has long detected patterns of religious
apocalyptic thought in what is supposedly rational, secular belief. He has
traced "egalitarian and communistic fantasies" to the ancient-world idea of
an ideal state of nature, in which all men are genuinely equal and none is
persecuted. As Mr Cohn has put it, "The old religious idiom has been
replaced by a secular one, and this tends to obscure what otherwise would
be obvious. For it is the simple truth that, stripped of their original
supernatural sanction, revolutionary millenarianism and mystical anarchism
are with us still."
Nicholas Campion, a British historian and astrologer, has expanded on Mr
Cohn's ideas. In his book, "The Great Year", Mr Campion draws parallels
between the "scientific" historical materialism of Marx and the religious
apocalyptic experience. Thus primitive communism is the Garden of Eden, the
emergence of private property and the class system is the fall, the final
gasps of capitalism are the last days, the proletariat are the chosen
people and the socialist revolution is the second coming and the New
Jerusalem.
Hegel saw history as an evolution of ideas that would culminate in the
ideal liberal-democratic state. Since liberal democracy satisfies the basic
need for recognition that animates political struggle, thought Hegel, its
advent heralds a sort of end of history-another suspiciously apocalyptic
claim. More recently, Francis Fukuyama has echoed Hegel's theme. Mr
Fukuyama began his book, "The End of History", with a claim that the world
had arrived at "the gates of the Promised Land of liberal democracy". Mr
Fukuyama's pulpit oratory suited the spirit of the 1990s, with its
transformative "new economy" and free-world triumphs. In the disorientating
disconfirmation of September 11th and the coincident stockmarket collapse,
however, his religion has lost favour.
The apocalyptic narrative may have helped to start the motor of
capitalism. A drama in which the end returns interminably to the beginning
leaves little room for the sense of progress which, according to the
19th-century social theories of Max Weber, provides the religious licence
for material self-improvement. Without the last days, in other words, the
world might never have had 65-inch flat-screen televisions. For that
matter, the whole American project has more than a touch of the apocalypse
about it. The Pilgrim Fathers thought they had reached the New Israel. The
"manifest destiny" of America to spread its providential liberty and
self-government throughout the North American continent (not to mention the
Middle East) smacks of the millennium and the New Jerusalem.
Science treasures its own apocalypses. The modern environmental movement
appears to have borrowed only half of the apocalyptic narrative. There is a
Garden of Eden (unspoilt nature), a fall (economic development), the usual
moral degeneracy (it's all man's fault) and the pressing sense that the
world is enjoying its final days (time is running out: please donate now!).
So far, however, the green lobby does not appear to have realised it is
missing the standard happy ending. Perhaps, until it does, environmentalism
is destined to remain in the political margins. Everyone needs redemption.
Watch this spacesuit
Noting an exponential acceleration in the pace of technological change,
futurologists like Hans Moravec and Ray Kurzweil think the world inhabits
the "knee of the curve"-a sort of last-days set of circumstances in which,
in the near future, the pace of technological change runs quickly away
towards an infinite "singularity" as intelligent machines learn to build
themselves. From this point, thinks Mr Moravec, transformative "mind fire"
will spread in a flash across the cosmos. Britain's astronomer royal, Sir
Martin Rees, relegates Mr Kurzweil and those like him to the "visionary
fringe". But Mr Rees's own darkly apocalyptic book, "Our Final Hour",
outdoes the most colourful of America's televangelists in earthquakes,
plagues and other sorts of fire and brimstone.
So there you have it. The apocalypse is the locomotive of capitalism, the
inspiration for revolutionary socialism, the bedrock of America's manifest
destiny and the undeclared religion of all those pseudo-rationalists who,
like The Economist, champion the progress of liberal democracy. Perhaps,
deep down, there is something inside everyone which yearns for the New
Jerusalem, a place where, as a beautiful bit of Revelation puts it:
God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more
death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain;
for the former things are passed away.
Yes, perhaps. But, to be sure, not everyone agrees that salvation, when it
comes, will appear clothed in a shiny silver spacesuit.
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R. A. Hettinga