Spirit in the sky. Fundamentalism in the 20th century has been to religion what fascism has been to patriotism. Edward Skidelsky looks at the ugly growth of an un-Godly fanaticism

The Battle for God: Fundamentalism in Judaism, Christianity and Islam

Karen Armstrong <em>HarperC

Fundamentalism is a major source of anxiety for people, such as I, who believe both in God and in the basic tenets of liberalism. We are embarrassed by the intolerance of our co-religionists, and struggle to distance ourselves from it. But to the extent that we succeed, we appear guilty of compromise and betrayal. Fundamentalists can boast that it is they who have remained true to the original faith - the faith of the apostles and martyrs - whereas we have fallen into apostasy. "When all is said and done," wrote Peter Berger in a recent Prospect, "fundamentalism usually refers to any sort of passionate religious movement." Is our faith, to the extent that it is not fundamentalist, lacking in passion and conviction?

Karen Armstrong is presumably no stranger to religious passion, having spent seven years as a Roman Catholic nun. But neither is she a fundamentalist; she has written learned, sympathetic books on Islam and Judaism. The Battle for God is an attempt to prove that fundamentalism, far from being synonymous with religious passion, is a strange, ugly and peculiarly modern distortion of it. It is an endeavour I support.

The novelty of fundamentalism is masked by how it presents itself as the defender of tradition. Fundamentalist movements arise in order to protect faith against the encroachments of modernity. American Protestant fundamentalism was provoked into existence by the introduction of scientific Biblical criticism from Germany. Jewish Orthodoxy was a reaction to the weakening of religious observance among emancipated Jews. Muslim fundamentalism was a protest against the secularising policy of Nasser, Ataturk and the Persian shahs.

But in coming to the defence of religious tradition, fundamentalism cannot help but transform it. Tradition is tradition precisely to the extent that it doesn't need to be defended. It is the unconscious background against which everything else takes place. Like the Christ Pantocrator in a Byzantine apse, it encircles the individual with benevolent, impersonal arms. I was recently made aware of this kind of tacit faith when an otherwise irreligious Italian friend of mine called himself a Catholic. Catholicism, for him, was not a personal conviction so much as a cultural inheritance. This loose religiosity is repugnant to Protestantism, but there is much to be said for it. It is good that most people should not be alienated from religion entirely. In moments of crisis, it is a source from which they can draw.

The moment a religious tradition falls under the influence of fundamentalism, everything changes. What was an inescapable inheritance becomes an object of voluntary allegiance. What was implicit is made explicit. A new stringency is imposed. Traditions lose their catholicity, their tolerance of variety and dissent. "He who is not against us is with us" is replaced by "He who is not with us is against us".

The obsession with purity - doctrinal in the case of Christians, ritual in the case of Jews, political in the case of Muslims - creates a tendency towards ever-greater extremism. In a culture that values stringency above all else, the more extreme of two positions always has the competitive advantage. Exactly the same logic can be observed in the history of communism and fascism, suggesting an underlying unity of motive behind all three movements. The phrase "conservative revolution", coined by the historian Fritz Stern to describe German fascism, could also be applied to religious fundamentalism. Like fascism, fundamentalism claims to defend tradition while at the same time transforming it into a revolutionary ideology. Fundamentalism, you could say, does for religion what fascism does for patriotism.

Armstrong is particularly interesting on the relationship between fundamentalism and science. Ever since the Scopes Trial of 1925, in which a Tennessee schoolteacher was charged with teaching Darwin's theory of evolution, fundamentalism has been seen as the deadly enemy of scientific rationality. But the relationship is more complicated than that. Fundamentalism rejects many of the conclusions of modern science, but it has adopted a basically scientific conception of what constitutes reality. The Bible is "the truth" in exactly the same sense that a history or physics textbook is "the truth". Where the Bible and the textbook contradict each other, the Bible must be right and the textbook wrong; there is no sense that the Bible and the textbook are talking about different things. This has some comical consequences. The marvellous myth of creation is transformed into a grotesque piece of pseudo-science, and much time is expended discussing what exactly will happen to aeroplane passengers when the skies open and the Son of Man returns in glory.

Here again, fundamentalism deforms the heritage it tries to preserve. Church fathers such as Origen and Augustine avoided the literal interpretation of Scripture on the grounds that "the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life". Everything in the Bible had a symbolic meaning as well as a literal one, and it was the symbolic meaning that gave life to the Church. But fundamentalism is heir to the positivistic spirit of the modern age. The notion of "symbolic truth" is execrated as a sophisticated equivocation, a subtle derogation of the literal truth. No ambiguity can be tolerated. Either the Bible is true literally or it is not true at all. Either you are with us or against us.

Fundamentalists share the impatience of a literal-minded atheist such as Brian Magee, who accuses religious believers of continually slipping backwards and forwards between literal assertion and metaphor. But it is precisely in this continual slippage that the life of religion lies. What is "the Resurrection"? It is both an event in human history, taking place at a particular time in a particular place, and a universal symbol of renewal. In traditional Christian writing, the word occupies both registers simultaneously. But the positivistic spirit of fundamentalism forces attention on the first to the exclusion of the second. The Resurrection is imagined in graphic physical detail. Jesus has become a vampire or a zombie; the numinous has become the ghoulish. This "magic trick with bones" (in the phrase of the theologian Keith Ward) is no longer capable of bearing the weight of significance that Christian theology places on it. Christ remains as if dead.

Perhaps the most damning thing one can say about religious fundamentalism is that it has very little to do with God. The title of Armstrong's book is in this sense a misnomer. Whatever it is that fundamentalism battles for, it is not God. American fundamentalists battle for the American way of life. Islamic fundamentalists battle against the American way of life. Jewish fundamentalists battle either for Israel or against Israel, depending on whether or not Israel serves their purposes. But can any of them really believe that the author of the universe takes their side in these miserable parochial squabbles? Religious fundamentalism has been an important force in the politics of the late 20th century, and this book is an admirable chronicle of it. But the real battle for God takes place on another level.

Edward Skidelsky's reviews appear monthly in the NS

This article first appeared in the 08 May 2000 issue of the New Statesman, The tiny group that controls us all

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Shell-shock symphony: Berg’s Wozzeck – opera’s take on post-traumatic stress disorder

Begun in 1914 and premiered in 1925, Wozzeck has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects.

When I was 12 years old, I made a devastating discovery. The arias from my favourite operas – Rigoletto, Turandot, The Barber of Seville – which I played over and over again, winding and rewinding the cassettes ­until they ceased to work, did not ­necessarily have words that matched the beauty of the music. Intense study of a book I had received for Christmas called Stories from Opera taught me that although some of the soaring melodies I adored carried words about love, death, horror and tragedy, other lyrics, in translation, proved to be people agreeing where to meet later, or misremembering each other’s names.

This crushing disappointment came to mind again recently while I was listening to an edition of Radio 3’s Building a Library, a segment of its regular Saturday-morning CD review, in which new releases are compared and contrasted with archive recordings to find the best listening experience. The reviewer Gillian Moore was surveying the available recordings of Alban Berg’s Wozzeck. She gave credit to several English-language recordings for the clarity they offer newcomers to this work, but eventually concluded that she must recommend a version using the original German, because there were crucial aural elements that could not be reproduced without it.

Moore, now director of music at the Southbank Centre, chose to kick off a series of semi-staged concert performances of operas with Wozzeck. Although undoubtedly an opera, it was a far cry from the fairy stories and doomed romances that filled my pre-teen ears, but it worked surprisingly well stripped of scenery, costumes and other theatrical accoutrements.

Zurich Opera’s presentation placed importance on the orchestral score above all else, allowing its jagged and insistent lines to remind us that this is music born of the dark years between the world wars. Begun in 1914, but delayed while Berg served in the Austro-Hungarian army (it premiered in 1925), it has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects. The score owes much to Berg’s fellow Viennese composers Gustav Mahler and Arnold Schoenberg (Mahler’s widow put up the money for the initial publication of the score). At times in this production, the orchestra was so utterly central that it felt like a symphony with singing, rather than vocal melodies with accompaniment.

The Wozzeck of the title is a poor soldier, flawed and dogged by madness and visions we would probably now see as signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. He scrapes a living for his girlfriend, Marie, and their son by humiliating himself before his military and class superiors (the Captain, the Doctor, the Drum Major) and by participating in degrading medical “experiments”. The star of the show, the German baritone Christian Gerhaher, had to withdraw at the last minute for health reasons, so the British singer Leigh Melrose stepped in to reprise his Wozzeck from the widely acclaimed 2013 ENO production. Despite performing from behind a music stand, Melrose acquitted himself well, handling the transitions between Berg’s three singing styles: “half-singing”, Sprechgesang (or “spoken singing”) and full vocalisation to great effect.

Gun-Brit Barkmin, with a severe Twenties bob and a flowing scarlet dress, was a superb Marie – alternately harsh and soft as the music demanded it, flirting destructively with the Drum Major while conveying how little choice she had in the matter. Of the ensemble, Lars Woldt’s Doctor particularly stood out, using the German libretto to drag every ounce of black comedy out of his character’s fascination with Wozzeck’s bodily functions. The high vocal standard proved Moore’s point about the necessity of the original German libretto – it is a difficult language to sing, because of all the harsh consonants and modified vowels, but when used expertly can be unendingly expressive. We hear this in the way the double “zz” of the title character’s name becomes a derisory bitten-off “tz” in the mouth of the Captain; and Wozzeck’s exclamation in Act I that “Du, der Platz ist verflucht!” sounds so much more accursed and deranged with all those consonants in such close proximity.

The German sociologist Theodor Adorno once called Berg “the foreign minister of the land of his dreams”, much to the composer’s amusement; but, hearing the score for Wozzeck laid so bare, you understand what Adorno meant. The incredible double crescendo on a single B from the orchestra after Wozzeck murders Marie – raised by the conductor Fabio Luisi in this performance to an unbearable volume before being allowed to die away – feels like music from an other-worldly nightmare. Yet, for the war-battered men who inspired Wozzeck, his tragic half-life was all too real.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis