No Martyrs
Dr. Jordan B. Peterson, and "Jesus Christ Superstar."
I have a lot of respect for Jordan Peterson. This is a provocative statement nowadays—and while I must admit that in my choice of topic I am being intentionally provocative, it saddens me that the very mention of this man’s name can summon a tidal wave of emotion and unfounded assumptions. If you say you like Jordan Peterson, people who dislike him may assume that that you are a conservative, “alt-right” perhaps (although Peterson resents having this label attributed to him). That you are “transphobic”(although, again, calling Peterson “transphobic” would be a gross misunderstanding of what he has actually said). People who admire Jordan Peterson will often make their own set of assumptions. They may assume, since you enjoy Peterson’s work, that you hold a preconceived set of beliefs which they also ascribe to (a set of beliefs which, once again, is likely to be inconsistent with Peterson’s own beliefs). And the notion that admiring someone’s work means agreeing with everything that they have ever said is inescapable. In all of this madness, the true meaning of Peterson’s work gets lost. He becomes a political figure, when he is first and foremost a psychologist.
Essentially, Peterson has ceased to be human in the minds of the vast majority of people, and instead has become a blank slate on which to reflect one’s own ideological beliefs and assumptions. A figure to project one’s own beliefs onto, if a fan of his, or a figure on which to project one’s most hated beliefs, if not. This phenomenon is not specific to Peterson—all divisive public figures serve this purpose. Peterson is actually a fairly mild case of this dehumanization, which is remarkable, given his name’s uncanny ability to make people angry on the internet. Mention Donald Trump’s name in a room, for example, and watch what ensues.1 If everyone in that room is in consensus (either in their love or hatred for him), they will all repeat similar pre-written catchphrases and affirm one another’s beliefs. If there are some differences of opinion, the argument that ensues can be cutthroat. And yet, in almost all cases, people rarely stray from the pre-written “party lines.” It is unlikely for an original thought to be uttered, and even if it is, it is almost guaranteed to be drowned out by the cacophony.2
I once believed that this division of people by ideological lines (and the consequent transformation of public figures from human beings into ideological figureheads) was a modern phenomenon, brought about by the mainstream media, social media, and government two-party systems which seek to control people by giving them the illusion of choice and keeping them fighting amongst themselves. I no longer think this is the case. For one, these institutions and platforms are all made up of human beings, and while a platform such as Twitter may display the worst of human nature (the natural consequence of bringing millions of people from all over the world onto a website in which they infinitely scroll through content algorithmically curated to make them angry), it does not create flaws—it merely amplifies those which were already inherent in its users. The Twitter algorithm does not create our propensity for outrage, it simply relies on humans to produce this reaction, because this is what sustains our attention. Political parties may divide people on ideological lines in order to promote an agenda, but it is the human thirst for power that formed these groups in the first place, and the human thirst for group identity that allows such a ploy to function. This is something that I did not always understand, when blaming the “ruling class” for all of the world’s problems. It does not make sense to blame any societal structure for deep problems which have always affected humanity. People created the structure of society, and while individuals come in and out of power and public figures enter and exit the spotlight and ideologies morph and change, human nature itself is always consistent. This is why, despite differences in societal structures, we have always seen poverty, wealth inequality, oppression. This is why we can still relate to fiction from the past—while our lives may look different, what motivates us is the same.
Fame itself, the very thing which allows a figure like Jordan Peterson to spread his message and ensures that the masses will misinterpret it, has presumably been around since the dawn of human civilization. It’s in the Bible—Jesus’s fame is documented in the New Testament,3 and there are mentions of the phenomenon in the Old Testament as well. It is likely that the concept of fame (i.e. notoriety among a widespread group of people who you do not know personally) has been around for as long as humans have been able to congregate and communicate. The comparatively massive following that people can quickly achieve today is the same process that brought listeners to Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, but on a gargantuan scale. In other words, we as a species4 can grow, but we cannot change. And just as fame has been around forever, the way that people react to fame has remained the same, too. We idolize, we regard the famous person as something superhuman, both deserving of a higher standard of scrutiny and immune to having their feelings hurt. The famous person starts to change, also—to start to internalize the crowd’s opinion of them. This is a topic that I have been thinking about for a few weeks now, even before my urge to come to Jordan Peterson’s defense. Believe it or not, this is because I listened to the brilliant rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar.
I know, I know. You are ready to give up on me already (unless you are already a fan of the musical). Perhaps you’re envisioning Judas in bell-bottoms (an image from the unfortunate 1973 movie),5 or simply don’t think that showtunes about Jesus are “your thing.” Perhaps you’re a big fan of Jesus, and think that the whole premise of the show is blasphemous. I understand. But I was blown away by this story. My analysis will be based on the 1970 concept album.6 For me, this was the perfect medium—I’m sure there have been brilliant stage productions, but the album conjured up such vivid mental imagery that I doubt any director would be able to do it justice. This album moved me. Its characters exemplify virtually every aspect of human nature. I guess this is unsurprising, given that it is a modern retelling of one of the most enduring and influential stories of all time. A common characteristic of myths and legends is their ability to be retold, passed down throughout generations and updated accordingly. Jordan Peterson would call the story of Jesus’s crucifixion an “archetypal” story: an artistic expression of the “collective unconscious” that we all share. This idea comes from Carl Jung, who believed that common “archetypes” make up the structure of the human psyche, and that these archetypes are often made conscious through narrative, typically myths.7 In his book Maps of Meaning, Peterson describes myths as follows:
“Myth is purpose, coded in episodic memory. Mythic truth is information, derived from past experience—derived from past observation of behavior—relevant from the perspective of fundamental motivation and affect. Myth simultaneously provides a record of historical essential, in terms of behavior, and programs those historical essentials. Narrative provides semantic description of action in image, back-translatable into imaginary episodic events, capable of eliciting imitative behavior. Mythic narrative offers dramatic presentation of morality, which is the study of what should be.”
In other words, myths impart wisdom—distill the lessons of history into the form of a story so that we may not have to live them over again. Myths encode our morality, teach us how to live our lives.
Specifically regarding the Christian myth, Peterson goes on to say this:
“The ‘highest levels’ of myth provide man with the capacity to attribute meaning to or to discover meaning within the tragedy of each individual human life, forever blessed and cursed by society, forever threatened and redeemed by the unknown. To live, at this mythic level—rather than to hide—means the possibility of reaching and perhaps exceeding the highest stage of consciousness yet attained or conceptualized by a particular culture. This mythic life is symbolically represented by the savior—the individual who embodies the essential aspects of the mythological drama. In the Western tradition, for better or worse, like it or not, that individual is Christ.”
And this:
“Christ embodies the hero, grounded in tradition, who is narrative depiction of the basis for successful individual and social adaptation.”
In the introductory summary that precedes the chapter I have been quoting from, he boldly states this:
“The New Testament… offers identification with the hero as the means by which the ‘fallen state’ and the problems of group identity might both be ‘permanently’ transcended. The New Testament has been traditionally read as a description of a historical event, which redeemed mankind, once and for all: it might more reasonably be considered the description of a process that, if enacted, could bring about the establishment of peace on earth.”
A gross oversimplification of Peterson’s beliefs about the New Testament seems to be that it is an instruction manual for how we should live our lives, with the example of the perfect man written within it. Christ symbolizes the plight of man; he is tempted by evil and turns towards good, serving as a model of how we all should be. He stands by his conscience above all else. This Christian morality is a good thing—it provides our lives with meaning, gives us a sense of the fundamental value system and meaning connecting all of humanity. We can observe how important these values are by seeing what happens when they are gone. When we turn against our traditional values (whether Christian or otherwise), we tend to replace them with a cheap substitute, typically political ideology. These ideologies are incomplete, misguided and sometimes even manipulative—they fulfill our need for purpose, just like religious myths do, but without any of the moral substance. I am borrowing this idea from Peterson—he talks extensively about the dangers of disposing with traditional values, and seems to believe that, whether or not the Christian myths are real, they’re important to our culture because they work—they serve the purpose of giving us a moral compass with which to follow throughout our lives. If we dispose of them, what are we going to replace them with?
When we turn against our traditional values (whether Christian or otherwise), we tend to replace them with a cheap substitute, typically political ideology.
Peterson wrote in the introduction to Maps of Meaning that, as a young man, he turned against his Christian upbringing and became an atheist (and then became a Socialist shortly after, illustrating the ideology’s utility as a stand-in for religion). He states that he found his faith illogical, unscientific, but I do not think that he ever delves into the deeper reasons why Christianity failed to satisfy him and so many other people.8 My guess is that nearly all modern churches have fallen into the same trap as the political ideologies: they are incomplete, misguided, often focused on a power-hungry agenda rather than on bettering the individual. They are dogmatic, while spirituality is creative. What Peterson seems not to realize is that his own brief departure from God illustrates an insidious problem that has led to our society’s departure from God and onto political doctrine—that modern religions pervert God, turn him (or her/them/it) into a cult-like figure, an enemy, something ridiculous and illogical and judgmental.
Really, though, God can be better described as something within all of us. Jung’s “collective unconscious,” perhaps, that little piece of the connectedness that links all humans and potentially even the whole world. Perhaps God is that feeling we get in our gut that tells us to take a risk, or to do the right thing, or to stay away from something harmful. When God is conceptualized in this manner, certain religious motifs that once seemed absolutely ludicrous suddenly start to make sense. The Bible can actually be likened to “the inspired word of God,” albeit not in the way you may have learned in Sunday school. The Bible, and myths like it, are greater than their writers, or their characters, whether real or fictional. The Bible is a summation of the unending human condition, a story whose characters and themes have parallels in mythological traditions all over the world, all throughout history. Humans are eternally dreaming up stories such as this one because they tell us about ourselves, give an accurate picture of human nature, guide us towards the life that is best for us to live. If the story of Jesus Christ is the “inspired word of God,” then God spoke to Tim Rice just as clearly as he spoke to John or Mark or Luke, through that spiritual realm where all good stories come from, where fiction truer than truth is born.9
There is a need for us to modernize these stories, and indeed it seems that there is some impulse within us which compels us to modernize these stories. The Bible is antiquated—I doubt any person today would truly be entertained by it, even if they do find it interesting and important, and the power of stories is in the way that we lose ourselves in them. This is why writers have always been compelled to write retellings. Dante’s Inferno, John Milton’s Paradise Lost. The Greatest Story Ever Told, The Passion of the Christ. We can’t get enough of this story. Perhaps this is a testament to the eternal nature of God, and the eternal tendency of humanity to stray from his light. Even in the times of the New Testament, in a country full of Jews that were supposedly religious, most people had lost the true meaning of God (this is why Jesus came down to “save” humanity). Maybe God’s constant distortion is a rule of nature—an example of history repeating itself over and over again. After all, if the Bible makes one thing clear it is that we are all made up of equal parts good and evil,10 and that the world exhibits the same ratio. The constant establishment of predatory churches and violent ideologies illustrates the dark side of life, but the constant retelling of the true message of Jesus Christ, the constant creation of new, modern myths, provides evidence for the light.
So what is it about this story that speaks to people? It tells us exactly who we are. The villains are profoundly human, as all good villains are, and the only thing that separates them from the heroes are a few misguided decisions. Take Judas, for example. Jesus’s right hand man. He betrays his best friend, sentencing him to an undeserved, painful execution. It is hard to think of a worse sin. However, his motivation was fear, not malice. He rightfully believed Jesus’s growing influence to be getting out of hand, and was afraid for Jesus, for himself, for the entire Jewish population, who would have been persecuted by the Romans if it became known that the public was worshiping a false “king.” Eventually, when offered money by the high priest Caiaphas to carry out his betrayal, he became influenced by greed. He was only human, after all—a scared one, already corrupted, and then tempted by a fortune. Caiaphas, too, believed he was acting for the greater good. The Jews were drawing too much attention to themselves, mobs were forming in worship of Jesus. It was getting dangerous; the Romans wouldn’t have tolerated it. So, “for the sake of the nation,” Jesus had to die. Also consider Pontius Pilate, the story’s greatest enigma (and the beneficiary of the album’s best song). The ultimate decision to crucify Jesus rested on him, as the Roman governor of Judaea, and he went through with it, even though he knew that Jesus was innocent. He grappled with this decision extensively11—he knew it was the wrong thing to do, and practically begged Jesus to say something in his own defense so that he could spare him. When Jesus refused to do this, the crowd egged Pilate on, cheering as he flogged Jesus, reminding Pilate that his loyalty was with Rome, that Caesar12 would be angry with him if he didn’t keep the peace. When Pilate finally succumbs to the pressure, it is unclear it is the fear of losing his position or the sheer mob mentality that gets the better of him. The impression one gets of Pilate is that he is a good man—just not a martyr. Out of all of the people responsible for Jesus’s death, King Herod seems to be the most clearly “evil,” as he seems to take pleasure in the idea of killing Jesus. But even he is just motivated by pride; the idea of another man being named “King of the Jews” was a blow to his ego. And besides, he lacked the authority to actually sentence Jesus—he was merely an enthusiastic onlooker.
What we have here is a story with no true villain. No one person was responsible for Jesus’s death—thousands were, if you count the crowd chanting “crucify him” as Pilate was making his decision. And every character that was principally involved can defer blame somewhere else. Judas’s betrayal shocks the conscience most, since he was Jesus’s friend, but he was just a tool, not instrumental to the plan at all. Caiaphas and the other priests had made the decision to kill Jesus before Judas approached them, and would have found a way to with or without his help. And Caiaphas, while callous, was hardly evil. He believed that he was acting for the good of his people, and he was likely correct. King Herod declared Jesus a criminal, but he didn’t have the power to execute him—he merely passed him back over to Pilate, who said the final word. And Pilate was hardly more culpable than any member of the crowd—he was influenced by Caiaphas, Rome, and the angry mob cheering him on. Faced with an incredibly difficult decision, he chose the easy way out, and acted against his conscience. Still, he could defer his blame up to Rome itself. All the way to Caesar, who had never heard of Jesus and had no idea any of this was happening.
This idea is addressed in Maps of Meaning, in a quote from Northrop Frye’s The Great Code: The Bible and Literature:
“The significance of the life of Jesus is often thought of as a legal significance, consisting in a life of perfect morality, or total conformity to a code of right action. But if we think of his significance as prophetic rather than legal, his real significance is that of being the one figure in history whom no organized human society could possibly put up with. The society that rejected him represented all societies: those responsible for his death were not the Romans or the Jews or whoever happened to be around at the time, but the whole of mankind down to ourselves and doubtless far beyond. “It is expedient that one man die for the people,” said Caiphas (John 18:14), and there has never been a human society that has not agreed with him.”
The most notable aspect of the story, though, is its portrayal of fame. Jesus Christ Superstar’s Jesus is a normal, mortal man. He is charitable, caring, outstandingly moral, but any superhuman abilities, any claims of him being the “son of god,” were rumors spread by an eager crowd. He didn’t have any special healing powers, he couldn’t walk on water. He was just a man with a large group of friends and a reputation that preceded him. It is interesting what happened, though. The crowd loved him, cheered for him, came to him with all of their problems and expected to be healed, but then they turned on him as soon as being a disciple ceased to be fashionable, and started to appear a little dangerous. They began hating him when he couldn’t live up to the fantastical tales that were told about him, even though they were the ones who propagated those stories in the first place.13
The worst part, though, was that despite the seemingly massive following that Jesus gathered, his message barely reached anybody. It is expected for anyone who has achieved a massive following to encounter some dissidents. But even the people that claimed to love Jesus didn’t understand him—they treated him as a blank slate for them to project their own feelings upon. Their rumors turned him into some kind of god, when he was just a man with a kind heart and a penchant for public speaking. They inundated him with their problems, and then when he was put on trial they turned on him as if he never meant anything to them.14 Even his apostles didn’t understand what Jesus was really trying to achieve. Judas, of course, betrayed him. Peter, another coward, denied ever knowing Jesus as soon as it became clear that being associated with him might be dangerous. Simon was a revolutionary. He urged Jesus to use his influence to incite a rebellion against the Romans, win a home for the Jews, whose persecution created much of the conflict that we see in this story. He told Jesus of all of the “power” and “glory” he’d win if he achieved such a feat—a motivation that seemed more important to Simon than the supposed good that a revolution would do for the Jewish people. Jesus’s response: Simon did not know what power or glory actually were. No one did.
What is implied here is a fundamental truth: that it hardly matters to the everyday person who takes power. Power often corrupts, and even when it does not, the rule of one good man is not enough to offset the forces of human nature. Jesus presumably knew this because he had stumbled upon some power and glory himself. I’m not sure how Tim Rice knew; I assume he must have studied history, or else intuited this fact through that special wisdom that only great artists have. In this song, he rejects the basis for every revolutionary ideology that has ever existed. It does not matter who usurps power. The result is always the same. There will always be injustice, poverty. There will always be evil. And while it is true that there have been extraordinarily awful leaders in this world, ones who have committed terrible atrocities, the reign of such rulers typically fizzles out eventually, either through war or their own internal destruction. Incidentally, the societies that are created under such rulers are often the least “revolutionary”—they are made up of dedicated, brainwashed followers.15 A revolution did not stop Hitler. The Allied powers did, while a good portion of Germany actually supported him. Likewise, the Soviet Union’s collapse came from within, from incompetence.
It does not matter who usurps power. The result is always the same. There will always be injustice, poverty. There will always be evil.
Inciting a revolution does nothing to change the world, no matter how benevolent the revolution’s leader believes himself to be. All it will do is cause unnecessary death and hardship, and then render things exactly the way they were before. The leader might turn greedy when given power, or else become grandiose, believing himself to be capable of fixing the evils of the world and consequently making everything worse. Even if this is avoided, a kind, wise ruler will not eradicate evil from the world. He cannot stop people from being lazy, jealous, or vindictive. He cannot stop greed or malice, cannot make everything equal, no matter how hard he tries. Even if he could, he would one day die, either of natural causes or at the hand of a usurper, one with less noble intentions, who is willing to fight dirty.
Take, for example, Marcus Aurelius. Roman Emperor from A.D. 161-180, he was the prime example of an enlightened, intelligent, benevolent ruler. He is still regarded today as an eminent stoic philosopher, and his Meditations—a collection of notes which he wrote for himself, never intended for publication—are popularly studied today both as a prominent stoic text and a guide on how to live a virtuous life. It is clear to any reader of Meditations that Marcus Aurelius was a virtuous, honest leader, concerned with the goodwill of his nation. Many would consider him one of the best leaders to have ever existed. I’d argue that his government was more benevolent than the ‘democracy’ most Western societies are purportedly governed under (proving that the system of government hardly matters, and instead the level of corruption is what makes or breaks a civilization). Yet, despite good intentions, he could not stop poverty. Could not stop evil. It’s impossible—the amount of micromanagement necessary would inevitably end up in the wrong hands, and even if this did not happen, no human being is omniscient. People err in judgment, and such a feat would require nothing short of perfection. Marcus Aurelius did not attempt such a task, but he did try to act according to his conscience. Nevertheless, atrocities occurred under his rule, despite being one of the greatest leaders in history. He has been blamed for the persecution of Christians, a controversial matter among historians.16 It is a perfect example of why an ideal society can never exist—the society is comprised of people, people motivated by cowardice and greed and pride and various other emotions that can cause a person to do evil even when evil is not their explicit intention. There are certainly some rulers who are better or worse than others, but one person cannot change the world. To believe otherwise would be to deify the person, and we have seen how that works out.
Jesus Christ Superstar’s Jesus is frustrated by this fact. However, he does not let it deprive him of hope. Why not? You’d think that it would. After all, he had made it his life’s work to save humanity from themselves, and, shortly before his impending agonizing death, he learned that such a feat was impossible. This seems extremely discouraging. Perhaps what kept him going was his “godlike” wisdom—the knowledge that, although you cannot change humanity (and should probably dispense with any utopian dreams, which, despite their good intentions, have been historically proven to always have a net negative outcome), you can change individuals. It is true that barely anyone in the story actually understood the meaning of Jesus’s teachings. He still touched lives. He changed the life of Mary Magdalene, who was arguably the only character in the play who actually understood what Jesus was trying to say. She was a prostitute, hardened to the world, callous towards her own body and any other living soul, and Jesus taught her how to love. Even just that one person that Jesus saved is more worthwhile than the most well-meaning revolutionary could ever accomplish. And he changed many more lives than that. Over the course of two millenia, there must have been millions, even billions of people who have heard this story and really gotten it. Getting the message out there for that minority of people was more beneficial than staying silent simply because the majority would never understand. Consider the closing lyrics to this song:
“If you knew all that I knew, my poor Jerusalem,
You’d see the truth, but you close your eyes…
While you live, your troubles are many, poor Jerusalem,
To conquer death you only have to die.”
Most people are blind to the truth—it hurts them. And then the concluding lyric: “To conquer death you only have to die.” What does this mean? It could mean any number of things. For one, it could be a play on the idea that Jesus “died for our sins”—conquering death by redeeming humanity. While a clever play on words, I’m not sure how true of a statement it is. He did not actually release humans from their mortality. However, this a common summation of the Christian myth, and may be what the lyric is referencing. The lyric also could be referring to his resurrection—he “conquered death” literally, by rising from the dead, and figuratively, by remaining alive in the memory of virtually the entire world. It has another meaning, though, at least in my mind. He is speaking of “poor Jerusalem,” a nation of suffering people. He seems to be stating the fact that this suffering is the price of their being alive. Oppression, sickness, suffering, foolishness. These are tragic things, but they are the natural order of the world. The only way to escape this truth is to die.
I repeat, this does not mean that Jesus’s plight was hopeless. Far from it. Even knowing all of this about the impossibility of actually changing the world, Jesus believed so strongly in getting his message out to as many people as possible that he martyred himself in order for it to reach an even wider audience. And this worked. The play ends on a positive note: with the song “John Nineteen: Forty-One.” It is a somber instrumental—a quiet, stripped down version of the album’s musical motifs. Its title is a reference to a bible verse, which goes as follows:
“Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in the garden a new sepulcher, wherein was never man yet laid.”
It is a dark statement, describing a tomb built just for Jesus. But it also signifies rebirth—there was a garden at the site of his death, a whole patch of new life. It seems to be foreshadowing Christ’s impending resurrection. Either way, it is a hopeful line, and makes the music seem bittersweet. It is also an archetypal line.
Consider the Phoenix, a bird which bursts into flames upon its death and is reborn from its ashes. It is a symbol of death and rebirth, similar to the idea of Jesus’s death and resurrection. Jordan Peterson has made this comparison, also, equating the symbolism of the phoenix with the process of transformation—the process by which order can be born out of chaos. It is a cycle which can happen at any level of abstraction, either within a society or within an individual. Chaos emerges, likely as a result of some problem within the current structure, and some transformation must occur in order for a new, better structure to be born. A sacrifice must be made in order for this to occur—the old bird must be sacrificed for the new.
This theme of rebirth is also representative of the “real-life” story of Jesus. Let’s assume that the story played out in the exact way that Tim Rice envisioned. It is unlikely that this is the case, as these events happened too long ago for anyone to really guess what happened, but I like his interpretation, and consider it just as good as any other, since it is impossible to find out the truth. If the events really played out like this, martyring himself was a good move. His influence was getting out of hand; his options were, essentially, to quit while he was ahead or die in obscurity and let his mission die with him. It seems he made the right choice—two thousand years later, we’re still talking about this guy. And yes, his message is still getting obscured. He’s worshiped as a god (something that the Jesus Christ Superstar Jesus would probably have found deeply unsettling), numerous cults have been created in his name. And yet he still manages to reach people, to guide them through the most horrible moments of their lives. This is in spite of the terrible things that have been said and done in his name. And every once in a while there comes a man like Tim Rice, who really gets it, and can reinvigorate the message once again. No, Jesus did not fix the world, did not change the structure of it or remove the suffering inherent within it. All he did was look for the truth, try to make some sense out of the madness of this world. I believe he succeeded, even though the truth remained elusive even after his discovery of it. Even though texts have been excluded from the Biblical canon17 and various churches have added their own spin on the story, the original message remains, and people can effectively use the Christian myth as a base for their own, individual spirituality, enriching their lives and inspiring their own search for truth. Perhaps Jesus was the catalyst in that phoenix-like death and rebirth of a whole society, in which some old customs died and some new, better ones emerged in their place.
It is remarkable no matter how you conceptualize it. Let’s assume you believe that the “canonical” interpretation of the Jesus story is correct, complete with the virgin birth and the supernatural powers. The power of the story remains the same. He still chose to sacrifice himself, to die a legend rather than being reduced to some party trick that would ultimately be exploited and twisted. It makes his martyrdom all the more noble. The power of this myth is not even diminished if you do not believe that Jesus existed at all. The New Testament is still remarkable—a compilation of the works of several authors, who came together to create a story so powerful that it lasted for centuries. There is something inherent to this story which speaks to us, moves us. How could something that was written so long ago, something which should seem so utterly foreign to us, speak to us on such a fundamental level, keep getting adapted and readapted and still never lose its power? The only explanation is that it is true—whether fiction, nonfiction, or something in between, the wisdom contained within it is so fundamentally true that it speaks to humans no matter where or when they are born. I simply cannot believe that a lie could be this universally appealing.
This is the power that the martyr wields. This story took place so long ago that we can no longer separate the fact from the fiction, but the very idea that a man may have committed this noble act is so moving to us that it earns our lasting attention. There is a Nineteen Eighty-Four quote that I often think about when pondering the subject of martyrdom. It is said by the character O’Brien, a prime example of a misguided political ideologue who carries out evil for what he believes to be the “greater good.” The quote is an attempt by O’Brien to explain to the protagonist, Winston Smith, why he must torture all unorthodoxy out of him. It goes as follows:
“The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the Inquisition. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy, and ended by perpetuating it… Because the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed them while they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed them because they were unrepentant… Naturally all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, there were the totalitarians… the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned from the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial, they deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity… And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened all over again. The dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten… because the confessions that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the stream of history… Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You will never have existed.”
Totalitarians dislike martyrs because their dedication strengthens their message. Think of the modern martyrs: people like Martin Luther King Jr, who we regard as heroes because of their supreme act of virtue. Think of a historic, secular martyr like Socrates (an older martyr, in fact, than Jesus). Charged with “impiety” by the Athenian aristocrats for allegedly corrupting the minds of their youth, Socrates was faced with a choice: he could either flee, or he could stay, stand trial, and die. The choice would have been clear—the caveat was that Socrates made his decisions by listening to his “Daimonion”: a voice in his head that warned him against mistakes. The voice told him not to leave, and so he stayed, and went down in history. Jordan Peterson tells this story in one of his lectures,18 and he makes a passing comment that this was a “rule” that he liked to follow in his own life. But what is this voice? Is it available to everybody, or is it the mark of some delusional maniac who believes himself to be superior to others, touched by some esoteric knowledge? While Peterson notes that Socrates believed himself to be different from other men because he always listened to the instructions of his 'daimon,' it is never implied that the daimon was some kind of gift that Socrates had that no one else did. Everyone has this voice—today we might call it “intuition.” Peterson calls it one’s “internal conscience.“ And it is inherent in all humans. Socrates distinguished himself merely because he listened to it, while others did not.
Totalitarians dislike martyrs because their dedication strengthens their message.
Was this the voice that Jesus listened to, when he decided that he would sacrifice himself? The stories of Socrates and Jesus are very similar. Both men preached ideas which made their rulers uncomfortable, and were put on trial in order to be silenced. Both had the chance to save themselves from death—Socrates could have fled Athens, and Jesus could have defended himself before Pilate, pled that he never declared himself King of the Jews, that it was all just a big mistake. Instead, Socrates stayed, stood trial, and was executed, all because the daimon said that he should. Instead, Jesus remained silent, chose to neither confirm nor deny the charges against him, and was crucified. Was he listening to his own daimon, referring to this voice instead as “God.” Is ignoring such a voice what Christians mean when they refer to “the temptation to sin”? Are people who are “godless” and corrupt people who have grown so used to ignoring this voice that they do not even hear it anymore? If we accept Peterson’s definition of the daimon as our “internal conscience,” this description seems rather accurate.
“Strong ideas produce profound displays of faith, or, alternatively put: unshakeable displays of faith are indicative of the strength of an idea. The strength of an integrative idea, or its preabstract procedural equivalent, might be considered reasonably measured by its capacity to inhibit competing impulses—especially those motivated by fear… This means that the ability of those who hold an idea to withstand challenge without wavering constitutes one [nonempirical(?)] affective criterion for determination of the truth of that idea—or at least of its intrapsychic utility.19 Hence the power of the martyr, and the unwillingness of even modern totalitarians to allow their enemies to make public sacrifices of themselves.”
Martyrs are dangerous to their opposition because the willingness to stand behind one’s beliefs no matter what is such a strong indicator of the belief’s correctness that people cannot help but be persuaded by it. To die for your belief lends you immediate credibility in the eyes of the public. This is presumably why, in Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus made the decision to die for his message. His words were getting distorted while he was alive, and if he allowed himself to fade into obscurity (a decision that would have spared his life) his message would have died with him. Instead, he went down in history.
Did he accomplish what he set out to, though? Are the totalitarians of the world right to fear martyrs? Perhaps not. Perhaps any message is destined to be warped by the crowd, lost in translation like a word in a game of Telephone until what is left bears no resemblance to the source material that created it. If so, why stop the martyrs at all? Why not let them burn themselves out, and then alter their reputations as you see fit. It’s extremely easy to get the crowd on board—we’ve already established that. So why interfere? You can just twist the person’s words, and then prey on their message. At that point, why even force them into martyrdom in the first place? It draws so much attention, after all. Why kill somebody when you can damage their reputation while they’re still alive?
This seems to be the modern way. Think of those algorithms I mentioned earlier, which promote inflammatory responses over substance.20 They are influencing millions of people, and they are doing so by promoting the most base, least thoughtful responses possible. Those influenced are not going to be forming nuanced opinions about complicated issues; they are going to continue spouting party lines.21 One need only take charge of these algorithms and the mass media. Once this is done, any unsanctioned discourse will be limited to small groups of people who will be quickly dismissed as “crazy.” That’s really all that you need to do to control the masses, anyway—hit them in the ego, where it hurts. If they feel stupid for entertaining a person’s ideas, they won’t. Even if they listen to what that person has to say, they will listen with their opinions already decided. So maybe it is better to leave the “dangerous” person alone, let fame run its course. Let it go to their head a little bit. A lot of people succumb to depression and addiction at this point, so the problem might resolve itself. Let the crowd oscillate between extreme opinions, either vilifying the person or glorifying them. Let two opposing groups form, and let them duke it out—it’s harmless, as long as they continually misinterpret what the person has to say. In most cases, no interference is necessary, right?
One thing that history has proven is that no one has ever been able to stop a martyr. Did the people who crucified Jesus want to turn him into a martyr? Of course not. They wanted to silence him in order to keep things the way that they were. The fact that this was not what ended up happening basically proves Peterson’s phoenix analogy—new order was reborn out of chaos as Christ ushered in a new era. Did the Athenians want to make a martyr out of Socrates? Of course not. They wanted his ideas gone. Instead, they immortalized him. They didn’t know that it was going to happen, but suddenly, out of his ashes, Western philosophy was born. This is because the power the martyr wields comes from their unwavering dedication to their opinions. Orwell knew this—it’s why the imaginary despots in his story brainwashed Winston and sent him back into the world before they killed him. But Orwell underestimated both the martyr and the crowd. There will always be someone who will obey their intuition above all else, and there will always be the unsuggestible minority that will be able to understand what that person is really trying to say. These are the people who revivify order. These are the true “progressives.” And, once the cycle renews itself yet again, they will inherit the Earth.
Let’s start a dialogue. Feel free to comment your opinion of Jordan Peterson, Jesus Christ Superstar, or any other thoughts that this essay may have sparked. If you have anything you’d like to add to the historical information I’ve mentioned in this essay, or if I’ve gotten anything wrong, please let me know.
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If you have become accustomed to thinking in the way I’ve just described, you may be inclined to predict my opinion of Donald Trump based on my opinion of Jordan Peterson. Please resist this urge.
This phenomenon is satirized in George Orwell’s Animal Farm.
First, a convenient, simplistic catchphrase (“Four legs good, two legs bad”) was created, so that any animal, regardless of intelligence, could understand and act according to the farm’s new rules. Then, an irritating habit was discovered:
“Then the sheep broke out into a tremendous bleating of ‘Four legs good, two legs bad!’ Which went on for nearly a quarter of an hour and put an end to any chance of discussion.”
“And, behold, there came a man named Jairus, and he was a ruler of the synagogue; and he fell down at Jesus’ feet, and besought him that he would come into his house:
For he had only one daughter, about twelve years of age, and she lay a dying. But as he went the people thronged him.” (Luke 8:41-42)
I was at first unsure if I wanted to use the word “species”—it seemed too scientific, to conjure up images of animals when I wanted to be talking about people. However, I think that the human-animal comparison is apt (after all, it is for a reason that Jordan Peterson talks so extensively on the hierarchies of lobsters). We do not expect other animals to act outside of their nature. A dog will always act like a dog. You can train the dog, and different dogs have different temperaments, but you cannot remove its natural impulses entirely. Why should we expect ourselves to be any different?
The movie features the apostles all getting out of a bus in the middle of the Israeli desert and bringing a giant cross out with them. A cross—and Jesus hadn’t been crucified yet. I’m all for creative liberties, but would like to talk to every single person who thought this scene was a good idea.
I’ve never seen a stage production, and gave up on the movie about ten minutes in when red-bell-bottom-pantsuit-wearing Judas started singing “Heaven on Their Minds” (a song in which he voices some concerns to Jesus) in the desert all by himself.
I will admit that I have a very shallow understanding of Jungian psychology—it is something that I have been meaning to delve deeper into for a long time, but that has always daunted me. If my rudimentary explanation of this topic is incorrect, or if you have anything to add, please share your thoughts.
Once again, I might be wrong—please let me know if he has addressed this somewhere. However, I am not sure if I’ve ever heard Peterson criticize Christian traditions for doing the exact thing that he criticizes Socialists of doing: providing a cheap substitute for spirituality which satisfies our need for some type meaning in life without any of the true moral guidance that religion provides. It is true that there is an inherent morality to the Christian tradition. However, such examples as the Spanish Inquisition and the Crusades make it evident that it is possible to distort the name of Christ in a way that makes people do terrible things. And one need only look at the Catholic Church’s pedophilia scandal to realize that one’s religiosity does not necessarily imply one’s morality.
I am assuming, of course, that when Peterson speaks of the Christian myths, he is referring to the stories themselves, not the various ways in which power-hungry people have distorted them. It is important to acknowledge the distortions, though, because they are the thing that has soured so many people towards the idea of God, and many churches’ insistence on a literal interpretation of God seem to have closed peoples’ minds to any symbolic or historic utility that the Bible may have.
You do not have to believe any of this spiritual stuff to understand what I am saying. No matter whether you believe in the sanctity of the Bible, these themes keep coming up, and we keep being attracted to these stories, because they are true. Therefore, there is a lot to be learned from them. The analysis that Jordan Peterson offers (which I briefly described before) does not rely on faith at all. It is simply an observation of the way humans tell stories, and the way we have always behaved.
Think of the story of Cain and Abel—something Jordan Peterson talks about extensively. The first human is the first murderer. The darkness within us has been with us from the very start.
As a response to Jesus’s frustration for being sentenced to death merely for looking for the truth, Pilate utters a genius lyric, a reflection of his own internal conflict:
But what is truth? Is truth unchanging law?
We both have truths. Are mine the same as yours?
I’ll let you decide this one.
The “Caesar” referred to in this story is probably Tiberius Caesar Augustus, the second Roman emperor.
Incidentally, this directly matches Judas’s warning “they’ll hurt you if they think you’ve lied,” proving that he was wise, albeit a coward.
His response: “God forgive them—they don’t know what they’re doing.”
I have heard that after Stalin was killed and his atrocities were made known, many of the guards who worked in the Gulags killed themselves. They had believed that they were doing the right thing. This is not a revolutionary population; it is a pathetic one.
From the knowledge I have gathered, I don’t believe that he directly ordered the killing of Christians. He may not have even been aware that these killings existed. The executions were carried out by minor officials in his name, something which sounds a bit like Pontius Pilate making the decision to execute Jesus in the name of Caesar.
I am talking about the apocrypha, specifically the Gospel of Thomas, which details Jesus’s teachings and makes no mention of his death, resurrection, or any supernatural abilities. It seems to me the most “down to Earth” interpretation of the man’s life—although, of course, I have not read it yet.
I am also thinking about the establishment of the Nicene Creed: the unification of the teachings of mainstream Christianity. It seems to me that a group of mortals codifying one acceptable spiritual worldview and deeeming anything else as "heresy” is the opposite of what Jesus, friend of the outcasts, would have envisioned.
Its title on YouTube is “Who Dares Say He Believes in God?”
Here, Peterson notes that the idea in which one martyrs himself for needn’t be true, it need only have some usefulness to the way that we organize our thoughts or understand the world. Thus, we come again to the subject of myths. Peterson says time and time again that it doesn’t matter if the events contained in myths actually happened. it only matters if their message is helpful—if they exemplify some fundamental truth about the nature of humanity or the world.
It’s like giving the “Four legs good, two legs bad”-bleating sheep from Animal Farm a megaphone.
In his brilliant book Brave New World Revisited (1958), Aldous Huxley explores the suggestibility of different people, and concludes that there are a small amount of extremely suggestible and extremely unsuggestible people in the world, with most people falling somewhere in between. He details a study done on patients recovering from surgery at the Massachussetts General Hospital:
“All of the patients received some injections of morphine and some of the placebo. About 30 percent of the patients never obtained relief from the placebo. On the other hand 14 percent obtained relief after every injection of distilled water. The remaining 55 percent of the group were relieved by the placebo on some occasions, but not on others.”
He also noted some characteristics of the suggestible versus unsuggestible people. The average IQ was the same among both groups. There were no sex differences, or age differences. The differences the researchers found were that the “suggestible” group were more agreeable and less suspicious, and that they were also significantly more anxious.
“They were also much more religious, much more active in the affairs of their church and much more preoccupied, on a subconscious level, with their pelvic and abdominal organs.”
I’m not sure what to make of that last observation, but the correlation between suggestibility, anxiety, and religiosity is interesting, as is the fact that the “normal distribution” of suggestibility throughout a society implies that the majority of people are somewhat susceptible to having their opinions unknowingly skewed.