[Dialogue] {Spam?} {Disarmed} The Theology of American Empire

Wed Nov 7 15:14:43 EST 2007

AlterNet

The Theology of American Empire

By Ira Chernus, Foreign Policy in Focus
Posted on November 7, 2007, Printed on November 7, 2007
http://www.alternet.org/story/63785/

Note: This is part of FPIF's new Religion in Foreign Policy Focus. for more,
visit www.fpif.org
<http://www.alternet.org/module/printversion/www.fpif.org> .

American foreign policy is built on a deep foundation of Christian theology.
Some of the people who make our foreign policy may understand that
foundation. Most probably aren't even aware of it. But foundations are
hidden underground. You can stand above them, and even take a strong stand
upon them, without knowing they are there. When it comes to foreign policy,
we are all influenced by theological foundations that we rarely see.

For example, few Americans have read the work of Reinhold Niebuhr, the most
influential American theologian of the 20th century. Many have never even
heard the name. Yet Niebuhr's thought affects us all. In the 1930s, he
launched an attack on the liberal Christianity of the Social Gospel, a
movement that powerfully influenced U.S. foreign policy in the first third
of the 20th century. The liberals were starry-eyed fools, Niebuhr charged,
because they trusted people to be reasonable enough to resolve international
conflicts peacefully. They forgot the harsh reality of original sin. 

Niebuhr wrapped that traditional notion of sin in a new intellectual package
and sold it successfully, not only to theologians but to the foreign policy
elite. Since the 1940s, foreign policy has largely been reduced to an
endless round of debates about how to apply Niebuhr's "realism."
Policymakers who still tried to follow the Social Gospel path have been
marginalized and stigmatized with the harshest epithet a Niebuhrian can
hurl: "unrealistic."

It's a Jungle Out There

Many policymakers, like much of the public at large, have come to find a
strange comfort in the world as Niebuhr described it. They see a jungle
where evildoers, who are all around, must be hunted down and destroyed.
Though frightening, this world can easily become the stage for simplistic
dramas of good against evil. And the moral certainty of being on the side of
good -- the side of God -- can provide a sense of security that more than
makes up for the constant terror. That was not what Niebuhr had in mind. But
as he found out so painfully, once you let ideas loose in the world, you
can't control what others do with them. 

Niebuhr would have been pained to see what the neoconservatives have done
with his ideas. Their theory starts out from his own premise: All people are
born naturally selfish and impulsive. The godfather of neoconservatism,
Irving Kristol, was (like most of the early neocons) an intellectual -- a
teacher, writer, and editor -- and (like many of the early neocons) a Jew.
But he turned to Christian theology to describe his Niebuhrian view of human
nature: "Original sin was one way of saying this, and I had no problem with
that doctrine." Selfish impulses, when they get out of control, can tear
society apart, he warned. To preserve social order we need a fixed moral
order. We therefore need a clear sense of the absolute difference between
good and bad, strict rules that tell us what is good, and powerful
institutions that can get people to obey those rules. 

According to this worldview, organized religion has been the most effective
institution to promote moral absolutes and self-control. Religion now needs
to be strengthened to stave off a rising tide of moral relativism that,
along with secular humanism, is breaking down the bulwarks of social order
and threatening to release a flood of selfish impulse to drown us all in
chaos. A favorite neoconservative columnist, Charles Krauthammer, complains
that American mass culture, dominated by skepticism and pleasure, is an
"engine of social breakdown." The best antidote would be a "self-abnegating
religious revival." Since that is not likely to happen, Krauthammer admits,
the best place to recover moral discipline and will power is in foreign
affairs: America must find the will to exercise its strength and become
"confident enough to define international morality in its own, American
terms."

Original Sin Goes Global

When neoconservatives apply their views to international relations, they
deviate from Niebuhr's teaching. All people may be sinners, they imply, but
not all nations. They assume an (often vaguely defined) hierarchy of
nations. At the bottom are the enemies of America, consistently described as
chaotic, irrational monsters who are incapable of self-control and bent on
provoking instability and evil for its own sake. Above them are neutral
nations and then U.S. allies near the top of the pyramid. At the top is the
United States, in a class by itself because its national motives are good
and pure, somehow untainted by original sin. 

Neoconservatives insist on this hierarchy, with its dramatic contrast
between the good United States and its evil enemies, because it gives them
the sense of moral clarity and certainty that they rely on to hold back the
relativism they fear. They bolster their sense of certainty by reducing
international affairs to simplistic myths: black-and-white tales of absolute
good versus absolute evil. (Here I use the word "myth" in its religious
sense of a narrative story that expresses a community's worldview and basic
values.) George W. Bush tapped into this mythic world when he said that the
war on terrorism is "a monumental struggle between good and evil. But good
will prevail." The outcome is certain, according to Bush, because "we all
know that this is one nation, under God." But Americans must do their
world-ordering job pretty much alone, since other nations and international
institutions are too selfish to be trusted. The United States must rely
primarily on military might, since the only language that the sinful
evildoers understand is force. 

The neoconservatives did not invent this myth. It goes back to the Puritan
belief in "the new Israel" and Americans as God's chosen people, with the
special privilege and responsibility of bringing order to a sinful, chaotic
world. Most Americans are still likely to see their nation as the global
hero fulfilling that sacred task. Only the United States, they believe in a
great leap of faith, is moved by an unselfish desire to serve the good of
all humanity by spreading ordered liberty. 

Throughout the Cold War era, across the political spectrum, there was no
doubting the name of the threatening evil: Communism. After a decade of
drift and uncertainty in the 1990s, the September 11 attacks, despite their
horror, allowed the nation to breathe easier, at least in terms of the
theology of foreign policy. Once again, it seemed that everyone agreed on
the name of the monstrous sinners, the source of instability. Rudolph
Giuliani could have been speaking for most Americans when he explained that
the cultural payoff of the war on terrorism was moral stability: "The era of
moral relativism.must end. Moral relativism does not have a place in this
discussion." That crusading tone of certainty gave Bush and the
neoconservatives a very free hand in the early post-September 11 days, when
they launched the invasion of Afghanistan. The administration then invaded
Iraq with the approval of 75% of the U.S. public and nearly all the foreign
policy elite. 

Iraq War

The myth of U.S. moral and global supremacy -- Americans as the world's
chosen people -- went largely unchallenged until the U.S. venture in Iraq
went sour. The myth says that the good guys are supposed to win every time,
because they are good. When the myth does not get played out in reality,
people start to complain. If you look at the current debate about Iraq from
the standpoint of myth and theology, the complainers fall into three broad
groups. 

First there is the mainstream of the foreign policy elite, made up of
Democrats and more moderate Republicans. They complain that the Bush
administration is pursuing the right goals but using the wrong tactics.
That's because the elite still hold on to some shreds of the old Social
Gospel view. They give most of the world a bit more credit for rationality;
they fear the impulses of original sin a bit less. So they see military
strength as one of several ways to secure America's global hegemony. They
are more willing to take a multilateral approach and use the carrot as well
as the stick - to pull diplomatic and economic levers before calling out the
troops. 

But these differences, though they can be very important, are largely ones
of degree and tactics. Across the board, members of the foreign policy
establishment, even the liberal Democrats, still give a very respectful
(sometimes slavish) hearing to the great theologian Niebuhr. But they apply
his "realistic" view of original sin only to other nations. The liberals
among the elite, too, want their sense of moral clarity and certainty
reassured by seeing it played out in a global drama of good against evil. So
they make a huge exception for the supposedly pure and innocent motives of
their own nation, the chosen people. They believe that the U.S. has a higher
moral standing, which gives us the right and duty to rule. That's how they
can justify the most ruthless policies against anyone who stands in their
way. 

The bipartisan elite may not value the display of American strength as an
end in itself, the way neoconservatives do. They are willing to risk a
short-term appearance of weakness in one place in order to bolster long-term
U.S. strength everywhere else. But long-term strength (including a long-term
military presence in Iraq) is still crucial, because they feel a sacred
calling to enforce "stability" -- their favorite code word for a single
global order that protects U.S. interests -- everywhere and forever. 

The second group of war critics is on the right. A growing number of
traditional conservatives criticize the administration and the bipartisan
establishment for betraying genuine Niebuhrian "realism." These hard-core
"realists" want the United States to recognize that it too is a sinful
nation, limited in its goodness as well as its resources, all too likely to
overreach and eventually destroy itself if it doesn't scale back its
hubristic dream of enduring empire. 

Thus the right-wing "realists" become strange bedfellows with the third
group of war critics, the left-wingers, who, starting from very different
principles, arrive at the same anti-imperialist conclusions. Though most of
them don't know it, what makes leftists leftist is that they still champion
many of the basic values of the Social Gospel movement. They do not accept
the doctrine of original sin; they don't think people are inherently doomed
to be selfish and unreasonable. They assume that the vast majority of
people, if treated decently and given decent living conditions, will respond
by being decent people. For the left, order and stability are not as
important as human growth, creativity, and transformation. The key to a
better world is not strength and dominance, but sharing and cooperation. And
leftists often assume -- or at least hope -- that the long-term trend of
history is leading to that better world, a view that is rooted in the
biblical hope for redemption. 

In Middle America 

Leftists who are consistent extend their Social Gospel view to its logical
conclusion: There are no monsters -- no inherently bad people -- only bad
conditions. So the good guys versus bad guys myth always distorts reality.
But a surprising number of leftists sacrifice logical consistency for the
emotional pleasure of the traditional myth. For them, of course, the
monsters are the Bush administration, the neoconservatives, sometimes the
mainstream Democrats too, and always, above all, the corporate elite whose
hand they see behind every gesture of U.S. imperialism. 

This left-wing version of the myth does not play very well in middle
America, or even on the coasts apart from a few ultra-liberal enclaves. The
hardcore "realist" view may get slightly higher ratings, but not much. Most
Americans still demand a heavy dose of moral idealism in their foreign
policy. They want to continue believing in the myth of American innocence.
They won't give in to a full-blown Niebuhrian pessimism about human nature
-- at least not when it comes to American humans. And they don't want to
believe that the economic and political leaders of their nation are utterly
cynical "realists," devoid of ideals, caring only about money and power. 

So the mass of the citizenry, sick and tired of losing in Iraq, swing in
line behind the only critical voice they can support: the foreign policy
elite. The public criticizes the administration for its inept effort in
Iraq. But most citizens don't raise any questions about the long-term goals
or the theological premises underlying them. 

Only when something looks broken do people think about fixing it. The last
time the U.S. foreign policy system broke down was when the United States
suffered defeat in Vietnam. However, after a short period of radical
questioning, a powerful reaction set in, fueled by the deep and widespread
need for idealism and moral certainty. The neoconservatives got control of
the public conversation in the late 1970s because they recognized that need
and offered a Cold War myth that satisfied it. 

The same need for moral clarity arose after September 11, but it's been
bitterly betrayed by the failure in Iraq. How can we avoid a similar
neoconservative reaction as we question the underpinnings of U.S. foreign
policy in the years to come? And if the Iraq debacle boots the
neoconservatives out of power for good, how can we use this window of
opportunity to challenge the most powerful alternative view, the bipartisan
establishment consensus? From the outset it won't help to scorn the average
citizen's idealistic view of America. That's like wishing away the Rocky
Mountains. Claiming that this worldview is unrealistic would be caving in to
a simplistic Niebuhrian "realism." After all, we on the left believe in our
own idealism. We are happy to hear right-wing "realists" argue that
Americans are no more idealistic than anyone else. But we forget that
Americans are no less idealistic either. That includes even the most
powerful leaders of the nation. Rather than demonizing them and dismissing
their claim to good intentions outright, we would do better to look for
common values that we can all agree on and then find progressive programs
that can put those values into practice. 

Different Moral Certainties

Just about all Americans, from Bush and Cheney and the CEOs of Exxon and
Lockheed-Martin on down, sincerely want the nation to be secure. As long as
our notions of security are built on the myth of well-meaning Americans
versus ever-threatening evildoers who embody original sin, we can never
dispense with the evildoers. They are as necessary in U.S. foreign policy as
sin is in Niebuhr's theology. They always have to be out there threatening
us, in our imaginations at least, in order for our pursuit of national
security to make any sense at all. 

The bipartisan consensus on U.S. foreign policy calls for us to be powerful
enough to dominate them. But every step we take to dominate only antagonizes
more people and makes some of them really want to harm us. As long as we
keep on this self-defeating road, we are not a national security state. We
are a national insecurity state. So, we need to redefine national security
in a way that meets people's need for a second value that so many of us
share: moral certainty. This involves a faith in some rock-bottom kind of
goodness in the world, which many Americans believe has a special home here
in the United States. 

There is a special kind of goodness, rooted in a special kind of theology,
that does have an old and honored home here -- the goodness of nonviolence.
There have always been Christians who were certain that the only moral way
to treat others, even enemies, is with love, not violence. They knew it
because Jesus said it, right there in the Bible. In 19th-century America,
the abolitionists and Thoreau turned the theology of nonviolence into a
homegrown strategy for political change. 

Martin Luther King, Jr. took this strategy a crucial step further. He
preached that it's the government's role to help bring all people together
in what he called "the beloved community" (something very much like what the
Social Gospel called the Kingdom of God). Every government policy should
promote "the mutually cooperative and voluntary venture of man to assume a
semblance of responsibility for his brother [and sister]" -- the
responsibility to help every person fulfill their God-given potential. 

In King's words, no matter how bad a person's behavior, "the image of God is
never totally gone." So, government must serve everyone, everywhere. No one
can be written off as a monstrous evildoer, sinful beyond redemption. That
was a moral certainty for King, an essential foundation of his religious
faith. King knew all about moral clarity and certainty. He was willing to
die for the truths he believed in so firmly. But he was not willing to kill.

A Different Narrative

With King as our guide, we could have a distinctly American foreign policy
based on the conviction of absolute moral certainty we find in the Social
Gospel and nonviolence traditions.. Our goal would always be to move the
world one step closer to becoming a universal beloved community. We would no
longer act out the myth of good versus evil. We would not demonize a bin
Laden or Saddam -- or a Bush or Cheney. We would recognize that when people
do bad things, their actions grow out of a global network of forces that we
ourselves have helped to create. King said it most eloquently: "We are
caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of
destiny." 

We can never stand outside the network of mutuality, as if we were the Lone
Ranger arriving on the scene to destroy an evil we played no part in
creating. Just as Bush is tied to Osama, so each of us is tied to all those
who do things that outrage us. We cannot simply destroy them and think that
the outrages have been erased. To right the wrongs of the world, we must
start by recognizing our own responsibility for helping to spawn those
wrongs. Indeed, fixing our own part in the wrongs we see all over the world
may be all that we can do. 

But in the case of the United States in 2007, that alone would be more than
a full time job for our foreign policy. We would have to, among other
things: 

*	end the occupation that creates a breeding ground for violent
jihadis in Iraq and Afghanistan; 
*	reverse the policy of supporting authoritarian regimes in the Middle
East; 
*	stop participating in the mad rush for power and resources in
Africa, which breeds disasters like Rwanda and Darfur; 
*	withdraw support for the corporations and financiers who would
strangle the emerging popular democracies in Latin America; 
*	and treat everyone as our brothers and sisters, even the leaders of
North Korea and Cuba and Iran. 

In short, we would have to create a new notion of "national interest" based
on the moral certainty that we are all threads in a network of mutuality
that is the foundation of our national as well as individual life. Since our
foundation is infinite and eternal, no one can threaten to destroy it, or
us. Embracing that principle as the basis of foreign policy could set us on
the road to a radically new way of thinking about genuine national security.

If that's not something all Americans can agree on, at least it's a program
that gets the debate down to our most basic assumptions. This is a
democracy. If the people want a religion-laden foreign policy based on the
doctrine of original sin and the myth of good against evil, it's what we
should have. But at least we should all talk about it together, openly and
honestly. 

Ira Chernus is a professor of religious studies at the University of
Colorado (Boulder), the author of Monsters to Destroy, and a contributor to
Foreign Policy In Focus. 

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