A liberal religion

In the third and fourth blogs devoted to the religion of ancient Greece, Nikolaos Markoulakis takes

The whole my life I've been a Greek polytheist, Hellenes, and supporter of the liberal political thought.

Nowadays, it is difficult to conceptualize that a religious faith can be described as liberal in notion.

We understand religion today as a structural organization with sacred books and a professional priesthood.

Liberalism requires a society driven by freedom of thought, there must be limits on power - especially that wielded by governmental and religious institutions.

How can I be both a liberal and a follower of a revived ancient religion? And can we really say that a religion which has derived from such an ancient culture and civilization could be liberal in modern terms? In my view this can be indeed the case when it concerns Greek polytheism.

The modern democracy has a structure which underlines the importance of the individual as part of a greater political organization, the state. Individual rights, as well as responsibilities, make up the political being.

Our contemporary democratic notion incorporates separation of state from religion because otherwise the individual freedoms could easily be suppressed by the most powerful religious group. A secular state is the only solution in a multi-cultural and diverse world to preserve political and individual rights and freedoms. Our free world today, which is liberal in notion derives from a school of thought dating back to the Enlightenment era. It is known that this initial liberal contemplation was ignited by the writings of Ancient Greece.

That world produced such marvellous spiritual works: philosophy and science, political constitution and deliberation, civil law and individualism, art and drama, literature and poetry as we known them today. The ancient Greek nation was tolerant towards new thought and diversity, because it was diverse and liberal at its core, and that core was its religion.

So, Greek thought is in fact a product of the ancient Greek religion. What makes Greek polytheism unique in producing such liberal societal structures? Some would argue that a set of foreign influences draw the minds of Greeks into a high level of contemplation. Indeed, this is partly right, but it is not the whole picture. A society (nation) has to be free of taboos and moral restrictions if it is to be able to easily absorb foreign thought as its own. Greek polytheism had an element so powerful and closely connected with the customs and ethics of men, yet all the while its directives were open to alterations and criticism.

Greek polytheism by its nature generates a variety of religious praxis. This multiplicity was reflected in the communities, the polis (city states), the nation as well as in the minds of men leaving in them. It was a religion for the state, not a religion of the state. The law of men was above the divine. Humility does not appear in Greek Polytheistic worship because the first principle of the Greek religion is the dignity of the individual.

In Greek religion there are no signs of zealotry, because it is part of the natural world, too much a part of the man’s nature. The religion and the gods are accepted as part of Nature’s body and the state’s constitution. Greeks recognized their divinities and religious practises as essential and important, turning to them whenever they felt the need. Greek polytheistic notion was a matter of joy and gladness, leaving no space for absorbed thoughts, empowerment and / or mystic devotion. Liberal thought, therefore, was in fact an element present in Greek polytheistic religiosity.

Nikolaos Markoulakis holds degrees in Social sciences and Social research. He is the director of the Markoulakis Publications, editor-in-chief at the scholarly based, peer-reviewed Journal of Hellenic Religion and the educational periodical Sparta.
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad