Both Socratic Greek philosophy and biblical religion endorse the human aspiration to become as much like a god or God as is humanly possible. This fact testifies to the important role that ideals of perfection play in human life. Against this fundamental similarity, however, important differences arise. First, in Socratic philosophy, deification rests on human not divine initiative. Socratic deification is primarily the product of rational self-discipline. The Bible, however, rejects as prideful this Greek ideal of self-deification. Biblical deification rests on divine not human initiative. Second, the gods of the Socratic philosophers are personifications of reason rather than divine persons. The gods of the philosophers are paradigms to be imitated rather than persons with whom we are in relationship. Third, the gods of the Socratic philosophers are cosmic gods whom we approach through the study of the orderly motion of the celestial bodies. By contrast, the biblical God is a divine person whom we approach through loving union with other persons, divine and human. Greek salvation takes us from here to there, from earth to heaven; biblical salvation takes us from now to then, from the present to the future.

In Mein Kampf, Hitler presented his Damascus Road experience, and in doing so he put himself on a par with the real founder of Christianity, Paul of Tarsus. Both narratives include a period of temporary blindness, a highly symbolic theme in the Christian tradition. Both stories contain a conversation with some divine entity. In Paul’s case, God speaks to him from the outside in the form of a vision. In Hitler’s case, God, in the form of Hitler’s own conscience, thunders his commands from the inside. In Mein Kampf, it is not explicitly said that this was a vision per se, but newspaper reports from 1923 stated exactly that. It is very likely that these reports were based on interviews with Hitler himself or someone close to him and therefore represented the view that Hitler wished to give of himself. This obviously served as a propaganda tool as well. Both in the case of Paul and in the case of Hitler, these voices are said to have urged them to let go of the past and present, and instead focus their energy on the future.

Genuine, refined, and updated scholarship in recent decades has gradually refuted the view of nationalism as a strictly modern phenomenon. That view in general had tended to interconnect nationalism with the industrial revolution and capitalism. According to this approach, the objective emergence of national markets combined with subjective manipulations by interested capitalists served to mold, often invent, nationalism; the conspicuous political expressions of this modern process are – per the modernists – the national states of western Europe. By contrast, my approach criticizes this dogmatic, often Marxist and Eurocentric, view, and is closely related to the new keen scholarship, which explores nationalism and nationhood, also beyond Europe, deep into antiquity, and aspires to avoid dogmas which ignore the rich, variegated, and eventful history of ethnopolitical identities. The Jewish nationalist case, as we shall see, conspicuously fits into the meaningfully nuanced long history category.

John Robertson explores the terms in which Spinoza adapted sacred history, as recorded in the Jewish Bible and Christian Old Testament, to support his political thinking in the Theological–Political Treatise (1670). Rather than reading this work in the light of Spinoza’s philosophy, the focus of most scholarship, Robertson argues that Spinoza sought to understand sacred history on its own terms, as constituted by the three ‘constants’ of revealed religion: prophecy, a sacred text, and the ‘Word of God’ contained within the text. Spinoza’s understanding of these concepts is shown to have shaped the lessons which he proceeded to draw from the history of the Hebrews, their religious customs and their commonwealth. Spinoza’s approach to sacred history is then compared with that of Hobbes, drawing out both similarities and differences. A final section asks what became of this interest in sacred history as a source for political thinking in the Enlightenment, suggesting that its repudiation by some (such as Rousseau) was offset by a shift in the interest of others (such as Vico) from the Hebrews to the gentiles.

8. Disgrace is read in its relation to numerous unacknowledged narrative influences, including Richardsons Clarissa and Tolstoys Resurrection.

In the first of two chapters devoted to the ways in which philosophers of the Scottish Enlightenment used ‘conjectural’ or ‘stadial’ history to re-think the development of human society, Aaron Garrett examines the epistemic problems which stimulated their enquiries. Confronting questions in legal history which could not be answered on the principles of positive or natural law, the jurist Lord Kames had recourse first to human nature then to contextual historical developments (such as the rise of commerce) to enable him to bridge gaps in the evidence with empirical and explanatory ‘conjectures’. Kames further drew on Hume’s discussion of time as a psychological experience of a succession of ideas, which carried the implication that the times of history might be experienced in multiple forms. This implication is clarified by a comparison with the strictly chronological conception of time adopted by Adam Anderson in his history of commerce, which fitted every development of note into the same unitary Biblical time scheme. The point of stadial history, by contrast, was to compare societies at different levels, or ‘stages’, of development according to their own time schemes. By pluralising time, the Scots made it possible to envisage multiple histories of human origins, religious belief and social development.

This contribution focuses upon the Fourth Session of the Council (1546), discussing the important issue of scripture and tradition(s), the definition of the biblical canon, the authenticity of the Vulgate, next to the question of the interpretation and diffusion of scriptural books. The subsequent, humanist-minded Fifth Session continued dealing with scriptural matters, and decreed lectureships on the scriptures being established in institutions for the education of the clergy, as a precondition for a qualitative Bible-based preaching.

This chapter begins with a description of the first biography of the Antichrist by Adso of Montier-en-Der around the year 950. It then traces the development of the story within the New Testament, particularly the book of Revelation, the letters of John, and the second letter to the Thessalonians. It looks at the developing Antichrist tradition in early Christian literature, especially the Didache, the Apocalypse of Peter, the Dialogue with Trypho, the Epistle of Barnabas, and the Testament of Hezekiah. It shows how, by the end of the second century, all the elements that were to become central features of the story of the Antichrist were in place.

A volume on the Bible and literature affords an opportunity to explore the conjunction of these terms in relation to a writer whose great work Moby-Dick (1851) – the story of the hunting-down of a white whale by an obsessed sea captain – came to have, after Melville’s lifetime, a mythic role for his nation and for the Western world. Melville’s life (1819–91) spanned the nineteenth century and he was one of its outstanding thinkers. His work throughout is profoundly influenced by biblical texts. This essay, noting the influence of the Wisdom books of the Old Testament, highlights both their capacity to help Melville think through the problems of his age, and their influence on his understanding of the power of story and the capacities of language. After a brief account of Melville’s formative years, the essay considers a long passage from Moby-Dick for the complexity of its resonances with Ecclesiastes and Proverbs. A discussion of the role of Wisdom in Melville’s long dramatic poem Clarel follows, with emphasis on the book of Job. A late sketch, “Daniel Orme” offers, through the figure of Daniel, material for a final reflection on Melville’s role as thinker and visionary for his society.

Shelley repeatedly described himself as an atheist, and yet in his poetry he frequently explored the possibility of god-like transcendent powers, divine inspiration, and prophecy. In many of his greatest poetic works (such as Mont Blanc, Ode to the West Wind, and Prometheus Unbound), Shelley frequently invokes biblical imagery to articulate essentially Christian values (hope, charity, love) while developing his own master themes of enlightened defiance, political liberty and the struggle toward self-control. In Prometheus Unbound, Shelley's Greek Titan is metaphorically “crucified” for his sacrifice to help humanity. His liberation follows a personal transformation that recalls aspects of St. Paul’s writing on self-mastery. It is unclear if Prometheus’ liberation is causally linked to his own imaginative renewal, or whether there are other forces (God, Necessity, inscrutable Powers) that are instrumental. The repeated inclination to invoke both classical and biblical writing while developing themes of personal autonomy and enlightenment is one of the most interesting aspects of Shelley's work, and one of the most representative qualities of Romantic writing more generally.

Nothing is more characteristic of Cormac McCarthy’s literary style than what Richard Woodward has called the “biblical gravity” of his prose. While references to the Bible abound in McCarthy’s work, it is the archaic vocabulary, powerful cadence, formal and thematic repetitions, and above all the paratactic syntax of McCarthy’s style inspired by the King James Bible that provide the closest link between his fiction and the Judeo-Christian tradition. This chapter examines the convergence of religion and aesthetics in McCarthy’s work as well as the function of a biblical narrative style in the fully administered world of contemporary society. Through readings of McCarthy’s essay “The Kekulé Problem” (2017), the importance of Christian mysticism to his work, and his peculiar association with the Santa Fe Institute, the chapter shows how McCarthy’s fiction draws on the Judeo-Christian tradition in order to produce a sense of mystery in the disenchanted world of modernity. At the same time, this production of mystery entails a mystification of literature that the chapter places in the postwar literary context in which McCarthy began his writing career.

Cormac McCarthy’s fiction and drama reveal his deep knowledge of and fascination with the Bible and how people interpret it. This knowledge appears in his use of Biblical diction, allusions, and typology. Given the Bible’s cultural weight in the West, McCarthy uses its language to elevate imagery or ideas to a kind of cosmic significance. Biblical allusions and typology allow McCarthy to draw various theological themes into his texts, contributing to his polyphonic style. The Bible also serves as an opportunity to explore the nature of interpretation and meaning for many of McCarthy’s characters. In The Orchard Keeper, Outer Dark, Suttree, and Blood Meridian, characters debate the proper way to interpret passages in the Bible, which reflects McCarthy’s broader interest in the way we interpret the world and the sacred. The Bible is an essential context to understanding McCarthy’s works in their fullness.