Mythos & Kallos · Part 04-06
Mythos & Kallos · Part 4
Having finished the myth of the dialogue between the Prophet and his second son, A took another sip of water.
Before B could offer his own reflections, C — who had at some unknown moment come to stand quietly at one side, listening — spoke first.
C: This is truly a sorrowful story.
B: Sorrowful? Why would you feel sorrow? I found this mythic tale rather fascinating. The prophet in the story shares certain features with the prophets of the cultural tradition I was born into — for instance, the prophet in the story establishes law, and the prophet in the story also interprets law, which accords with the reality I know; and yet there are also points that do not quite accord. But on the whole, I felt not a trace of sorrow.
C: I do not know myself why I have this perception. Different people will always perceive the same myth differently — I think this too is a most natural thing. What do you say?
B: You are right; I am merely curious whence your sorrow arises. And I am curious about something else as well: does the cultural tradition you come from, like mine, hold many legends concerning prophets? Did your prophets also lay down great bodies of law in ages past?
C: In the cultural tradition I belong to, the prophets are the priests of the Gods. They are both men and women, and from antiquity to this day they have held honored station. The priests establish the calendar, perform divination, record history, shape customs, transmit knowledge, and offer counsel of governance to the nobles — but they do not hold charge over matters of law. More broadly speaking, in my culture, though it cannot be denied that the priests exert great influence upon politics, they do not actively engage in politics, nor do they actively lay down laws of every kind for secular life.
B: To me this is somewhat inconceivable. In my culture, the prophetic-priestly class and the rulers are scarcely distinguishable. Many of the laws and customs of my culture were laid down directly by the prophets, then maintained and interpreted by the priests; the laws established by the prophets are equal to the laws established by God, touching every aspect of clothing, food, dwelling, and travel. Those of our people who gravely violate the law may be imprisoned, cast out from the people, or even sentenced to death.
B paused a moment, as if recalling certain things.
B: Though many of these ancient laws laid down by the prophet-priests are no longer upheld, or their interpretations have changed greatly, a portion of the ancient laws is still observed by our people to this day. By a remarkable coincidence, that law in the myth just now — that "the slaughtered animal must be given swift death to lessen its suffering" — exists also in my own cultural tradition, and has been handed down unbroken to the present day.
C: What you say is of great interest to me as well; I have always harbored a fascination for observing the customs of different cultures.
B: Might one put it this way: in my culture, the prophet-priests hold more real power than the nobles; while in yours, the nobles hold more real power than the priests?
C: Though this is somewhat simplified — for among my people many priests are also nobles — on the whole your judgment is correct. There is even this circumstance: in the political struggles of our nobility, some will deliberately maneuver to push a political rival into some vacant priestly office, thereby removing the opponent far from the center of power.
B: How fascinating!
C: History has also known cases of priests returning to the center of power, but their reputations usually suffer immense damage, for they have violated their own oaths sworn to the Gods. And in the culture I belong to, to break an oath sworn to the Gods is a deed of utmost immorality, and of utmost shame.
B: I have another question I am most curious about — I hope it will not offend you: might I ask whether you believe in the existence of the Gods?
C: That is no offensive question to me. I believe in the existence of the Gods. And you?
B: I do not believe in the existence of Gods. Had you come earlier and heard my conversation with this lover of myths, you would know that I find it difficult to accept anything that cannot be reproduced in perception or inferred by reason; I am one who believes in empirical evidence and science. I have long wished that someone might prove the existence of God in some manner I have never conceived — but regrettably, to this day I have met no such person.
C: Is it that you do not believe in the existence of God — or that you do not believe the existence of God can be proven?
B: Perhaps I am the latter: I do not believe the existence of God can be proven. In this respect I am an Agnostic, holding that the existence of God cannot be proven, and that likewise the non-existence of God cannot be proven. As I see it, whether God exists or not, neither can be demonstrated.
A: Ah — your words remind me of an engineer friend of mine.
B: Ha! What a coincidence — my own work is engineering. What then? Does this lover of myths wish to attempt to prove to me the existence of God? I think you should try; it would surely be most entertaining, and I await it eagerly.
A: My friend, if I possessed the talent to prove to others the existence or non-existence of God, I would be filled with dread. As I see it, I am not worthy of such a talent; and moreover I fear that were I to possess it, I would inevitably fall into that most terrible arrogance (ὕβρις = hubris), which would be the most far-reaching of curses. My friend, please do not expect me to prove to you the existence of God — the very thought terrifies me.
B glanced at C, then turned back to look at A.
B: This reaction of yours is truly novel to me. Why do you feel that the ability to prove God's existence would be the most terrible arrogance (ὕβρις = hubris)?
A: More precisely: to believe that "I have the means to make others believe in the existence of God" — that is the terrible arrogance (ὕβρις = hubris).
B: Can you explain your thinking further?
A: Perhaps the word "arrogance" cannot fully convey my meaning. The word in my heart is the Greek ὕβρις (hubris). ὕβρις (hubris) is no simple arrogance: it is transgression against the Gods; it is the mortal believing himself better able than the Gods to understand what is right; it is the mortal's presumption that he is wiser than the Gods, even that he has surpassed the Gods. ὕβρις (hubris) is the greatest of all presumptions.
B: So — what connection has this word you have explained with your fear of possessing "the talent to prove God's existence"?
A: My friend, let us first suppose that God exists. If God exists, then He has existed from the past, through the present, and unto the future — always.
B: And then?
A: And yet in every age there have been those who do not believe in God. If so — what God has not done, how could I, a mortal, accomplish? If I possessed the talent to prove God's existence, if I could demonstrate the existence of God by replicable, reproducible means, would this not declare that I am wiser than God — that I know better than God how to persuade a person to perceive the Divine existence? This is precisely that greatest arrogance, ὕβρις (hubris), of which I spoke! How could a mortal accomplish what God has not done?
B: So that is what you mean! But let me ask you: if God exists, why would God make Himself imperceptible to men? Is this some kind of prank? Or is it that even if God exists, He is utterly indifferent to whether mortals believe in His — or Their — existence? Please answer me.
A: My friend, I too long to know the deeper answer to that question — alas, I do not know it either!
B: If God exists, and yet men cannot perceive God's existence, this to me is a most unreasonable thing; therefore I hold it more reasonable that God does not exist. But as I said before, I hold that the non-existence of God likewise cannot be proven — so the question of God's existence is itself unknowable, and this, to me, is entirely reasonable.
C: My friend, you have a rigorous logic all your own.
B turned toward C.
B: And you, friend — what is your opinion?
C: To speak truly, your doubts have dwelt in my heart as well, and to these questions I too have no certain answers. What keeps my faith in the existence of the Gods alive is, in truth, the existence of certain people whom I know.
B: The existence of certain people makes you believe in the existence of the Gods?
C: It is no complicated reason. It is simply that I know some very good people, most of whom believe in the existence of the Gods, and all of whom are deeply devout. To me, they are much like angels; and since they are little angels in my eyes, then behind the angels there must surely be the Gods.
B: Yet this is no conclusive evidence — I think you know this as well.
C nodded in affirmation.
B: In my own life there have also been some very good people, yet many of them are agnostics, or atheists. Without their existence, I might well have died long ago. To me, they too are my "angels" — and yet these "angels" doubt the existence of God.
C: There is reason in what you say; mine is only a limited opinion formed from my own limited experience. Yet sometimes I think: since these "little angels" I know all believe in the Gods, perhaps it is no bad thing to suppose that a God exists; at the very least, in my culture, every one of the Gods guides men toward the Good.
B: With this I cannot agree. In the culture I come from, God also guides men toward the good — yet both in the past and in the present, there have been those who commit enormous crimes in the name of God. They profess belief in God, yet they have not turned toward goodness! To this I can bear witness from my own lived experience: those who believe in God's existence have done evil, while it was those who do not believe in God who showed me kindness!
The other two saw a faint anger surfacing in B — it seemed the conversation had stirred up some deeply unpleasant memories.
B: My apologies. Just now I remembered certain things long past. I thought I had forgotten them, but it seems I have not — these memories still shape me deeply to this day.
A: I would surmise that these memories are the deeper reason why you are unwilling to believe in God's existence.
B: You are not wrong. I cannot comprehend how anyone can commit ugly deeds in the name of God — it makes them doubly abhorrent to behold. It is precisely their existence that inclines me all the more toward God's non-existence! If God exists, why does He permit them to act thus? To me this is wholly unreasonable.
B noticed that A seemed about to speak, yet hesitated.
B: Lover of myths — say whatever you wish to say. Or have you at last broken through your dread of hubris, and wish to persuade me that I am wrong?
A: No, my friend. I have no wish to say whether you are right or wrong. It is only that a question flashed through my mind just now, and I did not know whether this was the proper moment to ask it.
B: I suspect it is yet another strange question. Ask away.
A: Why do you feel that to do evil in the name of God is ugly? Why do you deem it not beautiful?
B: Is this not perfectly obvious? What they do is ugly — therefore it is ugly.
A: Beauty and unbeauty — have they nothing to do with whether these people profess belief in God?
B: Of course nothing! Or rather — their professing belief in God makes them all the more ugly! Sets them all the farther from Beauty!
A seemed to sink into thought, and spoke no more.
B: Why have you fallen silent?
A: Oh — forgive me, my mind wandered.
B: Is that all you have to ask?
A: I have one more question: how is it that you perceive them as not beautiful?
B: It is simply a feeling of revulsion.
A: And why do you have this perception?
B: Ha! I truly should never have asked whether you had more questions!
B could not help but burst out laughing.
B: How should I know why I have this perception! All I know is that I perceive a feeling of revulsion! Look — we have a new listener joining us, waiting for you to recall those strange mythic tales of yours. Enough of your strange and curious questions!
A: Give me but a moment — I must write down the questions I just asked, for I fear I shall forget them.
B looked toward C, and with a meeting of eyes conveyed the meaning: "What a strange person this truly is."
Mythos & Kallos · Part 5
B and C watched as A took out a phone and, before their eyes, typed in a few sentences without head or tail — this, presumably, was A's "notes."
During this process, B, standing close by, glimpsed one line recorded on A's phone:
Φύσις κρύπτεσθαι φιλεῖ
Nature loves to conceal itself.
B: What does this line in your notes mean?
A: This line says "Nature loves to conceal itself." It is said to come from the ancient Heraclitus (Ἡράκλειτος).
B: I have heard his name, but I do not know him well. My impression is that he was very fond of uttering sentences without head or tail. As far as I am concerned, his line "Nature loves to conceal itself" might just as well be rewritten as "Heraclitus loves to conceal himself."
C: He reminds me of certain poets (ποιητής = poet) in my culture — those poets also wrote lines that read like riddles.
B: To speak honestly, I cannot appreciate this riddle-like aesthetics (αἴσθησις = aesthetics, perception) and philosophy.
C: Why is that?
B: I prefer clear expression. As I see it, vagueness and riddles are merely the mark of an insufficient mastery of language and logic. Many problems are not without answers — it is rather that their linguistic definitions are not yet clear enough; if a question is ill-defined in language, it naturally cannot have a precise answer. On this ground, though I admire certain poets, I am also heartily thankful that poets do not rule over us. In our world, reason still holds the upper hand.
A: That is truly an interesting view.
B: Do you not agree with what I said?
A: My friend, I merely find the phrase "poets do not rule over us" interesting.
B: Why would that strike you as interesting? That poets do not rule us — is that not a self-evident fact? Or in your culture, has a poet ever become a ruler (ἄρχων = archon, ruler)?
A seemed to drift off again for a moment.
A: My friend, what do you mean by "rule" (ἄρχω = arche = rule, beginning, principle, source)?
B: Just what it says on the surface — what other meaning could "rule" have?
C, standing nearby, seemed to recall something.
C: In my culture, a poet did indeed once become a ruler.
B: That truly astonishes me.
C: It happened long ago, in the person of a certain monarch. The historical records about him are scant; we know only that he loved to write down riddle-like verses. His daughter was also a poet, and like her father she loved to write verses like riddles. Alas, very few of this father's and daughter's verses have been preserved in the long river of time.
B: The world is truly full of wonders! Lover of myths, have you nothing to say to this?
A: It reminds me of a Greek word, νόμος (nomos = law, custom, melody/rhythm); this word carries the meaning of "custom," and of "law," and at the same time it also bears the sense of "melody."
B: And then?
A: The melodies of the songs written by the poets became customs, and the customs of the people in turn transformed into laws; thus the poet became the monarch — or one might say, this too is a part of Nature (φύσις = physis, nature).
B: Friend, to me, this association of yours is somewhat forced.
A: Then how do you think it should be?
B: If a poet can become a ruler, then that poet must hold the advantage in one of the following: either force of arms, or lineage, or wealth. A poet cannot become a ruler merely by writing poems; rather, it is because he already possessed the conditions for rulership that he became a ruler. I do not believe that those poets who became rulers ruled because they wrote poetry — writing poetry was probably no more than their hobby.
B turned toward C and asked:
B: And you, friend — what do you think?
C: I think there is a certain reason in what you say. I too find it hard to imagine that a poet could command obedience by song alone; without some measure of willing obedience, there is no rule at all.
B: Perhaps in mythic tales it is possible. Before you arrived, our myth-loving friend told a myth (μῦθος = myth) that placed the poet and the king side by side.
C: What a pity that I missed it.
A: My friend, shall I recall it once more?
C: No need — why not continue from where it was left unfinished?
A: That is truly a difficult task for me, for in my memory these myths are all unfinished. Allow me a moment to recollect, and see which fragments I can touch amid these mists.
After waiting a while, B and C heard A's recollection.
The poet's daughter noticed that her aged father had lately been sunk in melancholy. She could perceive no cause for it; the old father seemed to have been this way ever since returning from a solitary journey afar: listless in spirit, sparing of words, rarely receiving friends, and never again writing so much as half a line of verse.
What vexed her even more was that the old father had actually withheld her allowance.
For this, she composed a song, and set the lyrics to it with her own hand.
The song satirized her father for being miserly in the extreme toward his adorable daughter, while turning a blind eye to certain friends — met only a few times — who had borrowed money and never repaid it. The poor daughter, whose toils and merits were great, was forced to scrimp on food and clothing. The angels of the Gods, upon hearing the daughter's righteous lament, all pronounced: by the customs and laws (νόμος = nomos = law, custom, melody, rhythm) of whatever nation or culture, such conduct ought not to be; let the daughter's rightful allowance be returned to her forthwith.
This quaint and mischievous song succeeded in making the aged poet-father laugh. Laughing, he said: "What sort of nonsense is this you've written — learning nothing proper! I told you to eat fewer sweets and you wouldn't listen; look, your teeth are nearly ruined."
The old father had meant to scold a few sentences more, to say something like: "Study diligently — poetry may indeed enjoy greater elasticity in its grammar, but it is by no means without grammar (γραμματική = grammar); do not squander the talent (φυΐα = phyia, talent, natural endowment) the Gods have bestowed upon you — your talent is exceedingly rare among all my many students." But he seemed suddenly to remember something, and said no more; he only gave his daughter a helpless yet doting smile, and sent her on her way.
Her painstaking labor was at last rewarded: the daughter received a box from her father. This was the game she had loved best since childhood: her father would bring out several boxes for her to choose from; she could select only one as her gift, and each box held something different; before opening it, she had no way of knowing what lay hidden within.
From childhood onward, she never hurried to open a box once she received it — this was her manner toward all gifts. Only after she had presented offerings (θυσία = thysia = offering, sacrifice) to the Gods and expressed her gratitude to Them would she gently lift the lid.
The reason she did so was an oath (ὅρκος = horkos = oath) she had sworn in her childhood.
When she was very small, she had prayed to the Gods, hoping for a true home (οἶκος = oikos = home, household), with kin who would love and cherish her, so that she would no longer be an orphan whom no one heeded. If the Gods were willing to grant the wish of so insignificant a person as she, then in the future, before accepting every good thing and every gift, she would first present offering and thanksgiving to the great Gods.
The Gods hearkened to her wish. When the aged poet-father passed through the town of her birth with his students, he adopted her.
Having completed her thanksgiving and offerings to the Gods, the poet's daughter opened the box.
She found within it a gemstone, and was at once wild with joy.
She was deeply enchanted at first sight. This was the most precious gift (δῶρον = gift) her father had ever given her — and most important of all, it was also the gift she loved best — not because the gem seemed priceless beyond measure, but because it radiated a Beauty (Κάλλος = Beauty) that no words could describe.
The daughter fell into a trance, and by her ears there seemed to sound an ancient song:
Half a note of the eternal music within the darkness,
struck the dead-silent heartstrings of small and humble me.
Thanks be to the Gods, that mortals were graced to learn how to weep,
that the ripples of tears might touch one hundred-millionth of the faint glimmer of that unseen Beauty.
Thus the poet's daughter wept the whole night through, wholly unaware of the passage of time.
Having gone sleepless through the night, in the first ray of morning light she went to a temple she often visited. She poured out what little allowance remained to her, and presented the richest offerings within her power.
On the third day after receiving the gemstone, she brought her father's favorite food to visit the old man, and told her father that hereafter he need not buy her such costly gems.
Yet to her surprise, the old poet-father's reaction was one of utter bewilderment.
Father: A gemstone? What gemstone?
Daughter: That very lovely, very beautiful gemstone, of course.
Father: But I put no gemstone in the box!
Daughter: Stop teasing me! How childish!
The old poet hesitated for a good while before saying to his daughter: "Ah, now I remember. Let me have a look, and see whether it is worthy of my treasured daughter."
Daughter: Don't you use this as a chance to take it back.
Father: I would never do something so childish.
Daughter: You certainly would.
Only after a round of negotiation did the daughter bring out the gemstone, now kept in a new box.
The old father could see no gemstone in the box at all — he saw only his adorable daughter, her face full of smiles, awaiting his praise.
The old poet in the end only smiled and said a single sentence: "It suits you well."
The daughter, deeply afraid that the old father would take the gemstone back, vanished in the blink of an eye.
A few days later, the old poet with his own hands burned many of the poems he had regarded as his life's blood. Several students who had long stayed by his side pleaded bitterly with him to stop, but to no avail.
When the daughter learned of this, she wept and asked her father why he would do such a thing — those were the labors of his entire life.
The old poet looked much aged, yet the melancholy of before had been swept entirely away. He said only that he wished to write something new, and offered no further explanation. Gazing at his weeping daughter, the old poet solemnly asked her to promise him several things:
First, never to show that gemstone to anyone;
Second, that the poems she would henceforth compose with all her heart should circulate only among intimate friends;
Third, that she must conceal her own beauty and talent.
The daughter did not understand why her father would make these demands; she only held her father tightly through her tears, promised him all his conditions, and stopped her father from burning any more of his manuscripts.
The old poet gently stroked his daughter's head and said that she was the most precious gift the Gods had ever bestowed upon him; hereafter, when she presented sacrifice and offering to the Gods, she might offer his share together with her own. This was the last thing he asked his daughter to promise.
After a span of days not overly long, the old poet passed from this world.
Mythos & Kallos · Part 6
After listening to this myth recalled by A, B could not hold back from speaking on the part concerning sacrifice and offering to the Gods.
B: One of the key reasons I cannot accept the existence of Gods lies in the fact that They should actually need sacrifices (θυσία = thysia = sacrifice, offering) from humankind.
C: My friend, could you elaborate your view in more detail?
B: First, in the descriptions of many religions, the Gods are supreme beings, dwelling in a celestial realm beyond all reach, enjoying glories and felicities beyond mortal imagination. That being so, why would the Gods who govern the heavens need the sacrifices of mortals doomed to die (βροτός, θνητός = mortal)? They possess everything, and what They possess is far finer than what mortals have — do They truly need mortal offerings? It is as absurd as the sovereign of a nation needing the fish caught by a little kitten. That is my first point.
C: And what else?
B: Second, some believe that through sacrifice one may purchase the forgiveness of the Gods. I have seen men guilty of grave crimes buy costly offerings with ill-gotten wealth to pray for absolution. If this logic holds, then may not others seize the wealth of these criminals by equally improper means, offer half of it in sacrifice, and keep half for themselves? If the Gods can be bought with money, are the Gods truly holy? If the Gods can be moved by money, then what our religious institutions need is not believers, but hedge funds.
C: There is much reason in what you say.
B: Furthermore, when peoples of different faiths wage war upon each other, both sides sacrifice to their respective Gods. Does the outcome of war then depend upon whose offerings are more abundant? Since every war must have its victor and its vanquished, do the Gods not then break faith with the defeated side? These contradictions suffice to demonstrate the irrational nature of the act of sacrifice.
C: Then in your view, why do people perform sacrifices at all?
B: I believe sacrifice is in essence a collective mechanism of psychological consolation, akin to the Placebo Effect. Through sacrifice, believers establish a psychological expectation of payment and reward. When good fortune arrives, they attribute it to the protection of the Gods; and when facing misfortune, they console themselves with irrational notions such as "the punishment of the Gods," "insufficient offerings," or "the inscrutability of Heaven's will." This is no different from superstitiously gambling for riches — people selectively credit the Gods for good things, while seeking all manner of excuses to explain away the bad.
C: Then do you think sacrificing to the Gods is truly devoid of all meaning?
B: One cannot say it is entirely meaningless — the Placebo Effect is, after all, still an effect.
B pondered for a moment, then continued.
B: At the same time, religious sacrifice is not merely an individual act; it is moreover a bond that binds communities together — it is a cornerstone of social order. Historically, certain sacrificial rites echoed the harvest seasons of agricultural societies, giving birth to many of the festivals we enjoy today, and these festivals have infused our lives with an irreplaceable cultural vitality. Even though I believe in no religion and no Gods, I cannot deny that I am fond of all manner of festivals.
C: So your view, friend, is this: that sacrifice, though difficult to justify on the theological plane, nevertheless performs a positive and beneficial function on the social plane?
B: Precisely so. I even suspect that some priests of antiquity entertained similar thoughts; perhaps they did not truly believe in the divine efficacy of sacrifice, but rather held that the chief value of sacrifice lay in the cohesion of society.
C: Such views as you express would likely have invited danger in ancient times.
B: Indeed so. In antiquity, such talk would have been nothing less than blasphemy against the Gods, rebellion against tradition, and violation of the laws of the prophets. At the lightest, one would be cast out of the community; at the gravest, it might bring death upon oneself. Friend, it is much the same in your culture, is it not?
C: Yes. Although in our lands religion's influence upon politics is comparatively small, such tradition-challenging talk would likewise be regarded as impiety toward the Gods, and would negatively affect a person's standing within their community.
B: There is also a practical consideration: the economy of offerings is an economy too. If one declares that offerings are meaningless, how then shall the temples sustain the sale of their manifold offerings? This is an industrial chain stretching back a thousand years, and these claims of mine shake the very real interests of those along that chain. Interestingly, I have observed that many believers privately also suspect that offerings may not truly be efficacious — but like purchasing insurance one may never use, they buy them merely for peace of mind.
B paused again.
B: And for some societies, certain rites of offering and sacrifice have already become part of that community's traditional culture. Merely declaring that offerings have no effect will not alter whether people continue their religious practices, for these have become an indispensable component of their collective cultural identity.
B noticed that A was merely listening, without expressing any opinion.
B: Such, roughly, is my view of sacrifice. Lover of myths, have you no thoughts on this?
A: Oh, my friend, I think you have spoken very well.
B: You cannot simply say "you have spoken very well" and pass over the topic. At the very least you must give your own view — after all, I am quite interested to know it.
A hesitated.
B: Is this truly so difficult a thing for you?
A: My friend, your expectation does indeed pose a certain difficulty for me.
B: Why?
A: I do not know where to begin.
B: Then simply say whatever comes to your mind at this moment.
A: I have always been full of questions concerning sacrifice. I have never thought through what sacrifice truly is, nor do I know where to begin in answering your question, for I consider my knowledge of it exceedingly limited. I recall that I once consulted a priest on the question of sacrifice; I do not entirely remember the contents of my conversation with that priest, but I will strive to share with you, my friend, what I can remember.
B: Good.
A: I remember that priest said that whether sacrifice is efficacious is a very complicated question.
B: And then?
A: That priest said that to answer this question simply is rather difficult; different people asking this question would receive different answers.
B: Why should that be? Did that priest have no unified answer to these religious questions?
A: My friend, I too asked that priest why different people would receive different answers. The priest said that the inquiries of different people spring from different intentions, and different intentions require different answers; moreover, any question concerning the Sacred has, by its very nature, answers of many layers — and different answers are at times not mutually contradictory, but rather different branches of different levels of a single answer. That priest said that as mortals, we are by nature hardly able to approach the deeper layers of the answer; this is the humility a mortal must keep in the heart when inquiring of the Sacred, lest one fall under the curse of ὕβρις (hubris: transgressive arrogance toward the Gods).
B: I had not expected that this priest you consulted was, like me, an Agnostic (ἀ + γνῶσις = without + knowledge). Can you then summarize the answer you received?
A: That priest said that for me, a mortal who believes in the Gods, whether sacrifice is efficacious depends upon myself. If, when sacrificing, I can maintain piety and strive to keep my gaze fixed upon Virtue (ἀρετή = arete = virtue, excellence), then most sacrifices may be considered efficacious — only in varying degrees.
B: To me, this sounds like another way of stating the Placebo Effect. Did you ask that priest why the Gods need offerings?
A: I did, my friend. I asked why, if the Gods are perfect and lacking nothing, They should need the sacrifices of mortals. That priest asked me whether the Gods I believe in are perfect and lacking nothing. I answered yes. The priest continued: if the Gods you believe in are perfect and without lack, then it is not your perfect and unlacking Gods who need mortal sacrifice, but mortals who need sacrifice in order to draw near to the Gods. That priest said that as for me, my situation is this: the Gods do not need sacrifice, but I need sacrifice.
B: I do not quite understand — this sounds like a variant of the claim that "society needs sacrificial rites to maintain cohesion."
A: My friend, I hold no fewer questions than you. I remember that priest also said: my situation is my situation, and it does not necessarily apply to others; the priest hoped I would not take what applies to me as the absolute universal. But maintaining piety when sacrificing to the Gods, and keeping one's gaze upon Virtue (ἀρετή = arete = virtue, excellence) — this applies in the great majority of cases. To this day I have not thought through what that priest meant.
B: How exceedingly strange. Must different people then have different modes of sacrifice? If religious ritual is not uniform, what meaning does it retain? Religious ritual must maintain a certain unity.
A: I do not think that was what the priest meant.
B: Then according to your understanding, what should it mean?
A: My friend, to this day I do not consider that I have fully understood these things — I cannot answer you.
B: Did that priest say anything more?
A: I remember that within our conversation there was a passage whose general purport was this: "If you profess to believe in a certain God, you had best truly believe that God really exists. If you offer sacrifice to a God, then you had best believe that God is watching you always, and that your choices shall determine your Fate."
B gave a slight laugh.
B: For one like me who believes in no God whatsoever, that is precisely what is most difficult. Even when I take part in certain traditional festivals and rites, I treat them merely as going through a procedure everyone acknowledges — and I am not the only one who thinks this way. I hold that since sacrificing to the Gods at festivals has already become part of traditional culture, there is no harm in preserving it; only, I truly find it hard to summon any pious state of mind toward it, and harder still to truly believe that behind it there exists some God receiving the offerings.
B saw that C, standing to the side, was pondering something.
B: My friend, what are you thinking?
C: I merely suddenly remembered a friend of mine. That friend of mine attends most carefully to all these religious rites, facing them with a most pious attitude; when I am beside this friend, I can always feel a kind of religious atmosphere.
B seemed to recall something amusing, and laughed again.
C: My friend, what have you remembered?
B: I remembered a certain political figure of my country. I once watched, at close range, this politician taking part in a traditional rite. This politician has long enjoyed a reputation for piety, and is forever painted in the various media as an emissary reviving the ancient religious traditions of our nation. Yet what I saw with my own eyes was that this politician was unfamiliar with certain procedures and gestures within the rites, and repeatedly performed them wrongly. For one like me, raised in a religious school, it was truly difficult to pretend not to see.
B spread both hands, making a gesture of helplessness.
B: To me, religion is merely another instrument of politics. As an atheist, I cannot comprehend why, even in this age, religion should still possess such formidable political attraction that certain politicians must paste the label of piety upon themselves to harvest immense political energy. I can step back and accept the reality that these irrational forces still shape the skyline of power; but this makes it all the harder for me to summon any reverence toward Gods and religion, for the Gods too have been reduced to props manipulated by politicians upon their stage of merriment.
B continued in a tone of irony.
B: I often wonder: these politicians — who are in truth more deeply secularized than anyone, yet who masquerade on the surface as pious believers — how do they privately regard those who support them on account of faith? I think there can surely be no reverence in it; for it is a relationship of deception, and can a relationship of deception harbor sincere reverence? Must our "great" traditional religion truly be "revived" at the hands of such double-faced men? I think — better to let it be. I would rather accept the stiff old clerics of the elder generation as my teachers. I know not into what deformed mythical creature my country shall yet degenerate. Forgive me — when I recall these things I cannot help but complain without end. My friend, I wonder whether similar circumstances exist in your country?
C: In my country, by tradition, none dare violate an oath (ὅρκος = horkos = oath) sworn to the Gods, for this is held to be a most grievous crime. The politicians of my nation are all, to a greater or lesser degree, possessed of a certain superstition — they feel that such duplicity would truly offend the Gods — and so there is not much of the conduct you describe. Moreover, in my country, traditional religion remains rather vital; there is truly no need for any politician to "revive" traditional religion in the name of piety.
B: This astonishes me. I had assumed your country, like mine, had completed a universal secularization.
C: In truth, in certain respects my country remains quite secular, and this perhaps has to do with the history of my culture. The priests of my culture — whether on account of traditional religious taboos or for other reasons — maintain a relationship with worldly power that draws near yet holds apart; these priests seem intent on keeping their distance from secular politics. I had always assumed this was the universal norm, until I grew up and traveled to different places, and only then discovered that in some parts of the world priests are deeply entangled in politics — just as in your culture, my friend.
B: To speak honestly, I too once assumed that the relationship between religion and politics in my culture was the universal norm; only upon growing up did I learn it was not so.
C: I have seen, in certain countries, people who bitterly hate religion — and this too was a rather alien discovery for me. For in my culture, though religion may from time to time have its scandals and corruptions, on the whole people's impression of it remains favorable. Most of us believe in the existence of the Gods — not because religion forcefully intervenes in politics, but because, in my culture, religion has left behind many things of great worth in the long river of history. Many in our culture regard these as gifts from the Gods to us, and we gladly take part in the festivals and offer sacrifice to the Gods.
B: I do not envy you your religion — but I must confess, I envy you your freedom from hatred of religion. In my culture, the conflicts among secular power, religious power, and the common people have been far too many. I live in an age in which secular power and the common classes have gained the upper hand, and I truly do not wish those religious powers to sweep back again. Such is my wish — yet it seems that in my country, many do not think as I do. To this day I cannot understand the thinking of these people, even though some of them are my own family. Some of my family were formerly not at all fervent about religion, yet in recent years have thrown themselves into all manner of "revival" movements — I truly cannot understand them; their knowledge of traditional religion does not even run as deep as mine! Do they truly know what it is they are "reviving"? I know not how to broach these sensitive topics with them; I fear harming our relationships. I have tried to understand them, and I have failed. I can only watch as these family members support that hypocritical politician who cannot even perform the traditional rites correctly. At family gatherings, we all deliberately avoid speaking of any topic touching religion and politics.